■■i 


m 


^k^ 


kk^ 


^>iZi 


isi^ 


Ct     Tj 


&k6l 


n   ri 


;■    Tj 


i^i^i 


v^    rj 


^i^ 


^k^i 


SoTORING 

-—      IN  THE 

BALKANS 


ALONG  THE  HIGHWAYS 

OF 

DAI^MATIA 

MONTENEGRO 

THE  HERZEGOVINA 

AND 

BOSNIA 


IS§i 


m 


£>i^ 


1^ 


^-^ 


FRANCES  KINSLEY 
HUTCHINSON 


MOTORING  IN  THE  BALKANS 


By  Mrs.  Hutchinson 

OUR  COUNTRY  HOME: 
How  We  Transformed  a 
Wisconsin  Wilderness. 
With  over  loo  illustrations. 
Second  edition.  Small 
quarto,  boxed,  net  $2.00. 


A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 
Publishers 


MOTORING  IN  THE 
BALKANS 

ALONG  THE  HIGHWAYS  OF 

DALMATIA,  MONTENEGRO,  THE 

HERZEGOVINA  AND  BOSNIA 


BY 

FRANCES  KINSLEY  HUTCHINSON 
Author  of  "Our  Country  Home" 


WITH  MAP  AND  OVER  ONE  HUNDRED  ILLUSTRATIONS 
FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1909 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

igoq 

Published  September  i8,  igoq 


Qrt)t  lafcrsiTit  ^xtn 

R.  R.  DONNELLEY  ft  SONS  COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


T5R  \S 


Ea  fly  IHnttfrr 
A.  m.  IC. 

THE  INDEFATIGABLE  TRAVELER,  THE  WELL  INFORMED 

SIGHT-SEER,  THE  ENTHUSIASTIC   MOTORIST 

EVEN   AT  THE  AGE  OF  EIGHTY, 

THIS   RECORD   IS   AFFECTIONATELY   INSCRIBED 


57S056 

r  rnDito* 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB 

PAGE 

I. 

Plans  and  Preliminaries    .... 

•             17 

II. 

Trieste  to  Abbazia 

•            27 

III. 

Abbazia  to  Zengg 

•            38 

IV. 

Zengg  to  Gospic — Over  the  Vratnik  Pass 

47 

V. 

Entering  Dalmatia  —  Gospic  to  Zara 

58 

VI. 

Zara 

66 

VII. 

ScARDONA  —  Falls  of  Krka  —  Sebenico 

79 

VIII. 

Sebenico  via  Trau  to  Spalato   . 

95 

IX. 

Spalato        

105 

X. 

Salona — Clissa  —  Source  of  the  Jadro 

1x6 

XI. 

Spalato  to  Metkovic 

123 

XII. 

Metkovic  to  Ragusa 

137 

XIII. 

Ragusa 

145 

XIV. 

Ragusa  —  Lacroma — Lapad 

155 

XV. 

Ragusa         

164 

XVI. 

Ragusa  to  Zelenika 

175 

XVII. 

Zelenika 

183 

XVIII. 

Entering  Montenegro        .... 

189 

XIX. 

Cetinje 

201 

XX. 

Back  into  Dalmatia 

211 

XXI. 

Entering  the  Herzegovina  —  Ragusa  to  Gacko 

via  Trebinje 

222 

XXII. 

Gacko  to  Mostar  —  Source  of  the  Buna  . 

232 

XXIII. 

MOSTAR 

242 

XXIV. 

Mostar  to  Sarajevo 

251 

XXV. 

Ilidze  to  Jajce  via  Travnik 

264 

XXVI. 

Jajce 

276 

XXVII. 

Jajce  to  Banjaluka  —  On  to  Bosnisch-Novi 

285 

XXVIII. 

Leaving  Bosnia  —  Plitvica  Lakes 

295 

XXIX. 

To  Agram  and  Marburg     .... 

306 

XXX. 

Marburg  —  Gratz  —  The  Semmering  . 

317 

Index           

327 

ILLUSTRATIONS 


H.  R.  H.  Prince  Nicola  I.  Returning  from  Church,  Cetinjk 

Cargo-boats  from  Chioggia       .... 

The  Canal   Grande,   Trieste  .... 

The  Royal  Park  of  Mirauar,  near  Trieste 

The  Mail  Carrier's  Horse,  near  Pasjak     . 

A  Native  of  Arbe  at  Abbazia      .... 

The  Water  Bucket  of  These  Slavic  Countries  . 

The  Hotel  at  Crkvenica    ..... 

Young  Women  Working  in  Quarry  near  Crkvenica 

In  The  Market-place,  Zara       .... 

The  Baskets  are  Beautiful  in  Zara 

The  Riva  Vecchia,  Zara 

A  Typical  Costume,  Scardona   .... 

A  Brilliant  Crowd,  Scardona  .... 

The  Ferry  across  the  Krka     .... 

In  the  Market-place,  Sebenico 

The  Rows  of  Heads  on  the  Cathedral  Apse,  Sebenico 

The  Pleasant-looking  Lions  at  the  Cathedral  Door,  Sf 

The  Stony  Road  to  Trau 

Such  Tiny  CapsI 

The  Little  Kid 

Diocletian's  Palace,  Main  Fagade,  Spalato 
Corridors  Converted  into  Streets,  Spalato     . 
Marketing  in  Spalato        ...... 

Fortress  of  Clissa,  near  Spalato      .... 

Countrywomen  in  Metkovic 

With  What  Splendid  Freedom  She  Walks!  (Ragusa) 
The  Green  Omnibus  to  Gravosa       .... 

The  Porta  Pile,  Ragusa 

The  Strips  of  Streets,  Ragusa  .... 

A  Typical  Shop  on  the  Stradone,  Ragusa 

Herzegovinian  Women  Shopping  in  Ragusa 

The  Old  Harbor,  Porto  Casson,  Ragusa. 

PiERO  the  Gull,  Ragusa    ...... 

A  Dalmatian  Funeral,  Ragusa 

The  Moat  Converted  into  a  Park,  Ragusa 

The  Hotel  Square  on  the  First  of  May,  Ragusa    . 

The  Hotel  at  Zelenika 

Tilted  Rock  Strata  at  Zelenika       .... 


Frontispiece 

22 
22 

23 
30 
31 
31 

40 

41 
68 
68 
69 
84 
85 
85 
90 

91 

91 

100 

100 

lOI 

108 
109 
118 
119 
124 

125 
146 
146 
147 
147 
156 
157 
166 
167 
176 

177 
184 

185 


IX 


ILLUSTRATIONS  — CONTINUED 


Trebinje 


Crossing  the  Bocche         ......... 

That  Queer,  Gigantic,  Angular  Writing  on  the  Face  of  the  Mountain 
"Individual"  Harbors  on  the  Shores  of  the  Bocche 
Bocche  di  Cattaro  from  Grotto  of  Krst\c 

The  Road  to  Montenegro 

The  Hotel  at  Njegus,  Montenegro 

Cetinje  from  the  Hotel  Window      .... 

H.  R.  H.  Prince  Nicola  I.,  the  Ruler  of  Montenegro 

H.  R.  H.  Princess  Milena,  Consort  of  Prince  Nicola  I 

The  Struka        .... 

Montenegrin  Officers 

The  Royal  Palace,  Cetinje 

The  Prince's  Escort,  Cetinje   . 

The  Government  Barge    . 

At  Castelnuovo 

The  Younger  Generation  are  Adopting  European  Clothes 

The  Crowd  at  Bilee 

A  Picturesque  Couple,  Bilek    .... 
They  Disappear  down  the  Long  Road     . 

The  Garage  at  Gacko 

Source  of  the  Buna 

The  Bridge  at  Mostar 

Herzegovinian  Catholics,  Mostar     . 
After  Service  at  the  Franciscan  Church,  Mostar 
The  Men  are  Equally  Picturesque,  Mostar    . 
Gorge  of  the  Narenta      ..... 
An  Interesting  Group  in  the  Narenta  Valley 
Herzegovinian  Children,  near  Jablanica. 
One  of  the  Fates!    (On  the  Ivan  Pass)  . 
Wooden  Spindles  in  the  Museum,  Sarajevo     . 

The  Prenj  Alp 

A  View  in  Sarajevo 

An  Unexpected  Meeting,  Yoxjng  Turkish  Girls,  Sarajevo 

The  Hotel  at  Ilidze  .... 

A  Typical  Country  Mosque,  near  Gromeljak 

The  Painted  Mosque,  Travnik 

A  Butterfly  of  a  Maiden,  Travnik  . 

Tombs  of  the  Viziers,  Travnik 

The  Fountain  by  the  Tombs,  Travnik     . 

The  Ancient  Poplar,  near  Travnik 

The  Bogomile  Gravestone 

A  Christian  Family  of  Bosnia  . 

A  Christian  Farmhouse  in  Bosnia 

The  Tiny  Mills  of  Jajce 

The  Pliva  above  the  Fall 


193 
193 
194 

19s 
198 
199 
199 

204 
205 
206 

207 

2X2 

218 
219 
224 
225 
228 
228 
229 
238 

239 
248 
249 
249 
252 
253 
253 
258 
258 

259 
260 
261 
268 
269 
269 
270 
271 
271 
272 
272 
273 
273 
276 
276 


ILLUSTRATIONS  — CONTINUED 

The  Gate  of  Jajce  from  the  Outside 277 

The  SAiiE  Gate  from  the  Inside 277 

Turkish  Women  out  for  Their  Weekly  Promenade,  Jajce     .  278 

A  Modern  Shop  at  Jajce 279 

At  the  Entrance  to  the  Franciscan  Church,  Jajce  .         .280 

In  the  Market-place  after  the  Service,  Jajce        ....  283 

The  Beaded  and  Embroidered  Coats  in  Jajce                   .         .         .  2S1 

Brave  in  Sc/jilet  and  Gold 282 

With  Coin  Necklaces  and  Head-dresses 283 

A  Bosnian  Couple,  Jajce 283 

Peasants  at  Luncheon,  Jajce 286 

Turkish  Children,  Jajce 2S7 

Jajce  to  Banjaluka,  up  the  Urbas  Valley 288 

The  Conscription  at  Banjaluka 2S9 

The  Orange  Vender,  Banjaluka 290 

A  Sheepskin  Coat,  Banjaluka 291 

A  North  Bosnian  Costume,  near  Banjaluka 29a 

The  Cap  in  the  Back 293 

The  Cap  in  the  Front 293 

In  the  Una  Valley 296 

A  Ruined  Castle  above  the  Una 297 

The  Plitvica  Lakes  from  our  Windows 300 

One  of  the  Plitvica  Falls 3°^ 

Peasants  near  Karlovac 3^° 

A  Bosnian  Mill 3^° 

The  Church  of  St.  Mark,  Agram 3" 

The  Market-place,  Agram 3^2 

Croatian  Countrywomen 3^2 

A  Croatian  Peasant 3*3 

The  Ilica,  Agram 3^8 

A  Croatian  Harness 3^8 

The  Procession  at  Marburg 3^9 

The  Market-place,  Gratz 322 

At  the  Semmeiong 323 


Zl 


ITINERARY  AND  TABLE  OF  DISTANCES 


1908 

DATE 

K. 

MILES 

TOWN 

POP. 

HOTEL 

April    9 

Trieste 

183,000 

Hotel  de  Ville 

II 

74.2 

46.3 

Abbazia 

16,000 

Grand  Hotel  Stefani 

IS 

Crkvenica* 

Therapia  Palace 

IS 

839 

52-4 

Zengg 

Hotel  Zagreb 

16 

Gospic* 

SVRATISTE  LiKA 

16 

206.3 

129. 

Zara 

13,000 

Hotel  Bristol 

20 

Scardona* 

Restaurant  Buljan 

20 

101.5 

635 

Sebenico 

10,000 

Hotel  de  la  Ville 

31 

Trau 

3.500 

31 

73-3 

45-3 

Spalato 

20,000 

Grand  Hotel  Belle- 

VUE 

33 

Salona 

1,700 

33 

Clissa 

1,200 

SS 

Metkovic  * 

1,700 

Hotel  Austria 

25 

239.6 

149-7 

Ragusa 

8,400 

Imperial 

May     I 

513 

32. 

Zelenika 

Pension  Zum 
Grunen  Strand 

2 

67.9 

42.4 

Cetinje 

3,000 

Grand 

4 

119.  2 

74-5 

Ragusa 

8,400 

7 

Treblvje* 

5,000 

Hotel  Naglic 

7 

107. 

67. 

Gacko 

"      Mehopija 

8 

91-3 

57- 

MOSTAR 

14,400 

"      Narenta 

II 

Jablanica  * 

"     Jablanica 

II 

125- 

78. 

Ilidze 

"     Hungakia 

13 

13. 

7-5 

Sarajevo 

41,000 

"     Europe 

14 

Travnik* 

6,300 

"     Travnik 

14 

149 

93-6 

Jajce 

4,000 

Grand 

i8 

72.8 

45-5 

Banjaluka 

15,000 

BOSNA 

19 

Novi* 

3.500 

Novi 

19 

157-9 

98.6 

Bihac 

6,000 

Centrale 

20 

38.9 

24-3 

Plitvica  Lakes 

Vereins  Hotel 

22 

Karlstadt* 

6,000 

Stadt  Fiume 

22 

149  I 

93-2 

Agram 

61,000 

Grand 

24 

CiLLI* 

6,700 

Erzherzoo  Johann 

24 

I75-I 

109.4 

Marburg 

26,000 

i(               i< 

25 

Gratz* 

138,000 

Elephant 

25 

176.8 

no. 9 

SEifMERINO 

P.\MHANS 

26 

loi  .5 
2372.6  K. 

63-5 
1483.5  mi 

Vienna 

1,675,000 

Grand 

48  days 

es  36  towns 

*  Luncheon. 

MOTORING  IN  THE  BALKANS 


MOTORING 
IN   THE    BALKANS 


CHAPTER  I 

PLANS    AND    PRELIMINARIES 

"TTQW  would  you  like  to  go  to  Dalmatia  this  year?" 
quietly  asked  the  Leader  one  rainy  evening  in  early 
Autumn,  as  we  were  planning  our  Winter  migration.  "Dal- 
matia," he  said,  but  other  lands  beside  were  in  his  mind,— 
Montenegro,  the  Herzegovina,  Bosnia,  Croatia.  He  appar- 
ently did  not  see  our  startled  countenances  nor  hear  our 
explosive  comments. 

"Dalmatia!" 

"In  an  automobile?" 

''Can  we?" 

Thus  in  varying  pitches  the  trio  simultaneously  an- 
swered. 

"Why  not?"  was  the  reply.  "It  is  certainly  not  so  far 
away  nor  so  difficult  to  reach." 

But  to  me  it  seemed  almost  another  planet.  Dalmatia! 
What  strange  magic  in  the  name !  How  remote  and  Asiatic 
it  sounded !  What  visions  of  mountain  fastnesses  and  land- 
locked harbors,  of  curious  buildings  and  primitive  peoples, 
danced  before  my  excited  fancy! 

17 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

"You  know  that  narrow  strip  of  country  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Adriatic,  across  from  Italy!"  I  came  back  to 
a  consciousness  of  my  surroundings  and  the  expatiating 
voice  of  the  Leader  at  the  same  moment.  "It  has  been  a 
favorite  coast  for  yachtsmen  during  the  last  century.  Zara, 
the  most  northern  city,  is  about  the  same  distance  from 
Trieste  as  Rimini  is  —  " 

"Yes,  by  sea,"  interrupted  the  Cautious  One,  "but  the 
roads,  —  are  they  passable  ?  Has  any  one  ever  tried  them  ?  " 
For  the  spirit  of  the  pioneer  is  strangely  absent  from  our 
small  group  and  some  of  the  comforts  of  this  life  have  become 
necessities. 

"Are  there  any  road  maps?"  questioned  the  Enthusiast 
incredulously. 

"I  believe  that  there  are  some  government  maps  to  be 
had,  and  the  Italian  Touring  Club  has  also  published  a 
map  of  the  northern  portion  of  Dalmatia.  I  am  going  to 
send  over  for  them.  It  is  difhcult  to  get  any  information  about 
the  roads,  but  as  there  are  few  railroads  the  highways  should 
be  in  so  much  the  better  condition.  We  shall  have  to  in- 
vestigate as  we  go  along,  making  all  possible  inquiries  from 
place  to  place ;  —  if  for  any  reason  we  find  ourselves  blocked 
we  can  always  turn  back.  April  and  May  are  the  desirable 
months,  I  hear,  as  earlier  there  is  too  much  snow  on  the 
mountain  passes,  while  later  in  the  year  it  gets  very  hot." 

The  uncertainty  of  the  journey  promised  to  add  to  our 
interest. 

"  But  how  do  we  get  into  Dalmatia  ?  Where  do  we  start 
from?"  queried  the  Enthusiast,  always  desirous  of  details. 

z8 


PLANS    AND    PRELIMINARIES 

"Well,"  answered  the  Leader  of  the  expedition,  "we 
shall  probably  go  from  Paris  via  Nice,  Rapallo,  and  Spezia; 
Pisa,  Siena,  and  Rome ;  Temi,  Foligno,  Urbino,  and  Rimini ; 
Ravenna,  Padua,  Treviso,  Udine,  and  Trieste ;  but  I  cannot 
recommend  that  as  the  shortest  route!" 

The  Enthusiast  was  following  with  her  finger  on  a  large 
map  of  Europe.  She  reserved  her  comments,  but  her  looks 
spoke  volumes. 

"Trieste,  of  course,  is  the  natural  starting-point,"  went 
on  the  indefatigable  Leader,  "but  if  we  cross  in  January 
we  must  find  a  good  climate  during  February  and  March. 
The  Riviera  —  "  But  there  was  a  chorus  of  disapproval. 
"Oh,  no!  not  the  Riviera.  It 's  far  too  crowded,  too  dusty, 
too  gay!" 

"If  I  should  show  you  a  quiet  spot  on  a  green  hillside," 
composedly  proceeded  the  Leader,  "  a  small  hotel  in  a 
beautiful  garden,  an  apartment  where  the  sun  floods  every 
room  all  day  long,  a  cuisine  both  varied  and  tempting,  would 
the  mere  fact  of  its  being  on  the  Riviera  dissuade  you  from 
at  least  trying  such  a  place  ?" 

We  protested  our  unbelief,  but  meekly  consented  to  a 
trial.  So  it  happened  that  in  due  time  we  went  down  to 
Cimiez  on  the  hills  above  that  too-famous  winter  resort  of 
Nice  and  spent  three  never-to-be-forgotten  weeks  exploring 
the  winding  river  valleys,  hunting  up  neglected  and  half- 
ruined  monasteries,  discovering  (?)  splendid  gorges  and 
many  a  hill-crowned  city,  along  those  smooth  and  shady 
highways  which  make  the  land  of  France  dear  to  the  heart 
of  the  motor  lover.     It  was  almost  as  difficult  to  persuade 

19 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

us  to  leave  as  it  had  been  to  induce  us  to  try  this  bit  of 
Paradise,  but  the  days  were  flying  and  Dalmatia  loomed 
before  us. 

We  had  by  this  time  secured  large  maps  with  curiously 
forbidding  names  printed  upon  them;  "Crkvenica,  Otocac, 
Mali  Halan,  Benkovac,  Metkovic,  Krka";  —  should  we  ever 
be  able  to  pronounce  them?  Would  they  ever  become 
famihar  and  easy?  We  were  reading  Mrs.  Hohlbach's 
charming  book  on  Dalmatia,  and  also  a  French  translation 
of  a  German  "Guide  to  Dalmatia"  by  Petermann.  This 
last  book  gave  us  a  few  rules  on  the  pronunciation  of  the 
Serbo-Croatian  language  with  a  glossary  of  the  most  impor- 
tant words  that  a  traveller  might  need.  When  we  learned 
that  in  pronouncing  the  Slavic  names  it  is  only  necessary 
to  remember  four  rules,  we  no  longer  felt  so  helpless:  j  is 
pronounced  like  y:  c  without  accent  like  ts:  c  with  accent 
like  tch:  the  vowels  the  same  as  in  Italian.  We  were  in- 
formed that  in  the  large  towns  Italian  or  German  would  be 
readily  understood  and  at  most  of  the  hotels  English  could 
be  relied  upon,  but  in  the  hamlets  of  the  interior  and  on  the 
road  only  Slavic  is  used. 

Of  our  delectable  journeyings  from  the  sunny  Riviera 
over  the  mountains  to  Spezia  and  across  the  plain  to  Pisa; 
of  our  glance  at  the  famous  Delia  Robbias  of  Empoli;  of  our 
brief  stops  at  Siena  and  Viterbo;  this  is  not  the  place  to 
speak.  Even  Rome,  which  served  this  time  as  a  mere 
pied-a-terre  for  many  a  day's  excursion,  I  dare  not  begin 
upon.  Of  Cori  and  Ninfa  and  Segni,  of  Palestrina  and  San 
Cosimato,  of  the  nearer  Tivoli  and  the   Alban   Hills,   my 


PLANS   AND    PRELIMINARIES 

enthusiastic  descriptions  must  wait ;  for  Dalmatia  is  nearer 
than  ever  and  the  time  has  come  for  us  to  start. 

Up  by  the  fortress  of  Civita  Castellana,  with  a  look  at 
the  Cascades  of  Terni,  we  pass  Nocera,  Gualdo  Tadino,  and 
Cagh,  cross  the  Apennines  and  stop  at  Urbino,  Pesaro,  and 
Rimini,  having  followed  the  old  Via  Emilia  almost  the  en- 
tire distance  from  Rome.  Proceeding  via  Ravenna,  Rovigo, 
and  Padua;  Treviso,  Udine,  and  Aquileia;  at  last,  on  the 
ninth  of  April,  we  look  down  from  Obcina  upon  the  great 
seaport  of  Trieste. 

The  combination  of  old  customs  and  traditions  with 
much  that  is  extremely  modern  makes  this  city  of  Austria  a 
delight  to  the  tourist.  We  knew  from  our  faithful  Baedeker 
that  our  hotel  here  stood  upon  the  quay,  but  no  guide-book 
could  prepare  one  for  the  fascinating  picture  which  the  win- 
dow revealed  as  we  entered  our  apartment.  Black-hulled 
steamers  from  Palermo,  from  Dalmatia,  from  France,  Eng- 
land, and  even  from  America,  lay  at  anchor  on  the  glittering 
sea,  while  bright-hued  Venetian  boats  unloaded  their  queer 
cargoes  at  the  near  embankment.  I  leaned  in  ecstasy  upon 
the  window-sill  thoughtfully  provided  with  cushions  for 
tired  elbows,  and  watched  the  changing  scene.  Freighters 
arrived  and  trim  passenger  boats,  their  masts  and  yards  so 
much  more  picturesque  than  the  huge  funnels  of  the  modern 
steamer.  A  ferry  from  Capodistria  came  jauntily  to  the 
dock  and  unloaded  her  passengers,  who  walked  ashore  with 
brisk,  business-like,  almost  American  alertness,  apparently 
heedless  of  the  rare  and  beautiful  sight  presented  by  this 
hill-encircled  city,  brilliant  with  the  brief  sunshine  of  the 

21 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

early  Spring.  From  the  distance  a  big  liner  signalled  with 
flying  colors,  calling  a  tiny  tug  that  slowly  guided  the  monster 
to  her  berth  amidst  the  moving  craft. 

But  no  steamer,  big  or  little,  can  compare  in  picturesque- 
ness  or  in  grace  with  the  gayly  colored  cargo-boats  from 
Chioggia,  their  orange  and  brown  sails  patched  in  vary- 
ing tones,  their  stripes  of  green  or  red  or  blue  around  the 
clumsy  hulls,  their  big  round  eyes  and  slanting  yards, 
their  billowy  sails,  spread  to  the  soft  south  wind  or  hanging 
limp  against  the  mast  or  draped  in  wonderful  folds  to  dry. 

The  morning  light  only  strengthened  our  pleasing  impres- 
sions. From  a  market-boat  at  an  adjacent  quay,  marched 
a  long  procession  of  women  with  baskets  on  their  heads. 
In  the  distance  appeared  a  sailing  vessel,  her  shining  can- 
vas turned  to  silver  in  the  glowing  sun.  A  forest  of  masts 
and  funnels  extended  on  either  side  of  my  vantage  post; 
but  my  particular  interest  lay  in  the  doings  of  the  fasci- 
nating port  shut  in  by  the  Molo  San  Carlo  and  the  more 
prosaically  named  Number  Four.  One  boat  was  loading 
telegraph  poles,  one  large  stone  slabs,  several  had  a  pen- 
chant for  bricks,  and  even  sand  was  not  disdained.  Two 
men  were  carrying  hand-barrows  of  sand  from  the  ship's 
hold  to  a  pile  some  twenty  feet  away.  I  wondered  why  they 
did  not  put  it  at  once  into  the  queer-shaped  wicker  wagons, 
which  stood  near,  waiting  to  receive  it;  but  I  suppose  that 
belongs  to  another  class  of  labor!  The  waiting  oxen, 
crouched  in  quiet  contemplation  of  this  busy  scene,  reminded 
me  of  their  appearance  in  the  criches  or  presepi,  those  rep- 
resentations of  the  Nativity  so  dear  to  the  hearts  of  Italy. 


CARdo-HO.VrS    KROM    CHIOC.C^.IA 
CANAL   cmANDE,     TRIES  IK 


PLANS    AND    PRELIMINARIES 

A  gray  coasting  steamer  with  a  beautiful  green  water- 
line  poked  its  sharp  nose  deftly  between  the  larger  craft  in 
the  crowded  waters,  and  ran  alertly  alongside  the  quay,  bear- 
ing an  interesting  group  of  humanity.  "  It  must  be  mar- 
ket day,"  I  thought,  and  seizing  my  kodak,  I  plunged  into 
the  busy  throng.  It  was  market  day,  and  the  market  was 
beside  a  wonderful  canal  lined  with  gayly  painted  ships. 
The  heaps  of  oranges  and  lemons  repeated  the  colors  of  the 
sails,  and  country  folk  in  full  short  skirts,  with  shawl  and 
knitted  scarf,  completed  the  picture.  A  trio  of  brilliantly 
costumed  men  flashed  by  me  from  the  quay.  '  *  Dalmatians ! ' ' 
I  heard,  as  I  turned  to  follow  them.  They  looked  so  big 
and  fierce  that  I  dared  not  "snap"  them  openly.  Their 
wide  leathern  belts  were  stuffed  with  what  seemed  to  be 
weapons  of  war;  I  say  "seemed  to  be,"  for  I  afterwards 
learned  that  those  vast  and  commodious  pouches  were  not 
allowed  to  carry  anything  more  dangerous  than  smoking 
utensils.  Certainly  to  the  superficial  observer  the  array 
was  no  less  intimidating.  A  quaint  old  lady  stepped  into  the 
market-place  looking  as  if  she  had  come  out  of  a  picture 
frame.  Her  dark  blue  skirt  had  no  gores  taken  from  its 
gathered  fulness,  her  black  velvet  cape  was  trimmed  with  a 
deep  netted  fringe,  over  which  was  draped  a  black  necker- 
chief brocaded  with  green  flowers,  and  on  her  head  she  wore 
a  black  kerchief  whose  large  magenta  peonies  outshone  the 
blossoms  of  every  booth.     I  started  to  follow  her  when  — 

"Do  you  realize  that  it  is  breakfast  time?"  asked  a 
familiar  voice  at  my  elbow;  "and  that  we  are  going  to  see 
Trieste  to-day,  —  and  Miramar?" 

23 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

Of  course   wc  climbed   up  the   steep,   none-too-sweet- 
smelling  streets  of  the  old  city  to  the  "Arco  di  Ricardo," 
whose  huge  blocks  of  stone  told  its  Roman  origin. 

"Why  Ricardo?"  asked  the  tireless  seeker  after  infor- 
mation. 

"After  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  who,  according  to 
tradition,  was  imprisoned  here  on  his  return  from  Pales- 
tine." 

I  always  accept  traditions  absolutely,  —  it  makes  his- 
tory so  much  more  interesting  and  the  personages  seem  so 
much  more  like  real  people.  So  it  was  easy  to  imagine  that 
picturesque  hero  of  mediaeval  history  languishing  behind 
barred  and  narrow  windows,  catching  an  occasional  glimpse 
of  the  blue  Adriatic  which  half  in  playfulness  one  night  had 
cast  him  away  upon  Lacroma's  rocks.  What  an  impression 
his  personality  must  have  made  upon  these  people  that 
they  rededicated  to  him  this  half-hidden  remnant  of  a 
Roman  triumphal  arch! 

There  are  museums  in  Trieste  containing  antiquities 
and  modern  treasures,  but  the  chief  charm  of  the  city  lies 
in  her  out-of-doors,  and  here  we  wandered  through  narrow 
lanes  and  stone-paved  courts,  by  busy  streets  and  sunny 
squares,  watching  the  people  at  their  work  and  play.  We 
climbed  the  steep  paved  way  to  the  cathedral  at  the  castle 
walls.  The  present  church  was  evolved  in  the  fourteenth 
century  by  combining  three  sixth  century  edifices  built  on 
the  site  of  a  Roman  temple.  The  tombstones  in  the  fagade, 
and  also  some  of  the  inscriptions  in  the  squatty  belfry,  were 
exceedingly  curious.     From  the  terrace  the  view  over  the 

24 


PLANS    AND    PRELIMINARIES 

city  and  the  sea,  through  flowering  peach  orchards,  was 
enchanting  in  color  and  outHne. 

About  five  miles  to  the  northwest  of  Trieste,  close  to  the 
sea,  is  the  royal  Chateau  of  Miramar,  situated  in  a  beau- 
tiful park  which  is  freely  thrown  open  to  the  public.  Im- 
agine a  garden  of  flowers  and  vines  and  shrubs ;  of  fountains 
and  pools  and  pergolas;  of  trees  and  hedges;  of  stone 
benches  and  statuary,  —  but  no  grass.  It  is  wonderfully 
beautiful.  At  the  time  of  our  visit  the  wistaria  was  just 
ready  to  blossom,  and  when  its  purple  tassels  fall  through 
the  open  lattice  of  the  encircling  arbors  the  effect  must  be 
magical.  The  laurustinus  starred  the  copses,  the  genista  was 
beginning  to  shine  in  yellow  glory.  Hyacinths  and  for- 
get-me-nots, tulips,  jonquils,  and  calceolarias  in  the  box- 
edged  formal  garden  were  brilliant  and  effective.  Black 
swans  swimming  lazily  back  and  forth  in  this  cool  retreat 
begged  us  for  tidbits. 

On  a  small  esplanade  half-way  up  the  cliff,  four  or  five 
baby  cannon  pointed  seaward,  and  beneath  the  pines  the 
view  was  exquisite,  either  towards  the  castle  or  over  the 
blue  Adriatic.  I  thought  of  Maximilian  and  his  pleasure 
in  making  this  splendid  estate  from  the  stony  hillside.  I 
wondered  whether  in  the  stormy  stress  of  his  life  in  the  new 
world  his  heart  did  not  sometimes  ache  with  longing  for  the 
quiet  of  this  beautiful  home;  and  a  picture  of  the  desolate 
field  at  Queretaro,  where  he  was  shot,  came  forcibly  to  my 
mind. 

In  turning  away,  I  almost  touched  a  little  bird  which 
looked  up  fearlessly,  and,  in  no  way  disturbed  by  our  pres- 

25 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

ence  or  our  movements,  hopped  unconcernedly  about  with 
a  touching  trustfulness  in  the  human  being  which  spoke 
volumes  for  the  constant  stream  of  visitors  drifting  through 
this  royal  domain.  This  beautiful  confidence  was  the  more 
noticeable  in  contrast  with  Italy,  where  every  bird,  big  or 
little,  is  so  much  "  game  "  for  the  ardent  sportsman. 


26 


CHAPTER  IT 

TRIESTE   TO   ABBAZIA 

"\X7E  had  looked  forward  to  Trieste  as  the  place  where  we 
could  doubtless  obtain  definite  information  in  regard 
to  the  roads  and  conveniences  of  motor  travelling  in  Dalma- 
tia.  Here  at  its  door  we  should  probably  find  better  maps, 
more  guide-books,  and  possibly  some  friendly  soul  who  had 
made  the  trip.  We  did  learn  that  there  were  about  twenty- 
five  automobiles  owned  in  the  city  and  that  within  the  last 
fortnight  four  motor  cars  had  preceded  us  into  Dalmatia. 
This  was  encouraging.  Perhaps,  however,  it  might  as  well 
be  stated  here  that  we  never  saw  any  of  these  adventurous 
tourists  in  all  our  wanderings,  and  heard  of  only  one  of  them 
that  penetrated  as  far  south  as  Zelenika.  Here,  after  one 
glance  at  the  "  ferry "  across  the  Bocche  di  Cattaro,  he 
shipped  his  car  back  to  Trieste  by  steamer  and  took  the  next 
boat  himself. 

Trieste  is  so  purely  a  seaport,  that  she  seems  to  scorn  any 
acquaintance  with  inland  communication,  and  no  road  maps 
of  any  kind  of  Istria  or  Croatia,  of  Dalmatia  or  Montenegro, 
of  the  Herzegovina  or  Bosnia  were  to  be  found.  Doubtless  this 
will  be  remedied  as  the  demand  increases;  for  the  western 
Balkan  Provinces  are  sure  to  become,  in  the  near  future, 
the  happy  hunting  grounds  of  the  motorist.  But  at  the 
bookshops,  the  bankers',  the  hotels,  they  looked  upon  us  at 
this  time  as  half-demented  folk  to  attempt  a  tour  in  Dalmatia 

27 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

by  automobile  instead  of  keeping  to  the  well-known  and  tried 
means  of  locomotion  —  the  steam-boat. 

It  had  been  the  secretly  cherished  desire  of  our  Leader 
to  preface  our  Dalmatian  joumeyings  with  a  bit  of  the  old 
peninsula  of  Istria.  Could  anything  be  more  beguiling  than 
the  descriptions  of  Pirano  surrounded  by  olive  groves  above 
the  bay,  or  Capodistria's  cathedral  and  Palazzo  Pubblico;  or 
Parenzo  with  its  sixth  century  church,  or  Rovigno  with  its 
high-lying  campanile,  and  above  all  Pola,  with  its  famous 
Amphitheatre  and  Roman  Temple  ''  erected  in  B.  C.  19,  its 
frieze  still  in  excellent  preservation  " !  But  upon  this  jour- 
ney authorities  were  unanimously  agreed.  "By  steamer 
if  you  will,  by  rail  if  you  must,  but  not  by  automobile.  The 
roads  are  so  dreadful  that  most  motorists  have  turned  back." 
Mud  and  stones,  narrow  ways  and  steep  heights,  short  turns 
and  frightened  peasantry,  —  everything  bad  and  nothing 
good  was  said  of  it!  While  not  believing  all  this  we  re- 
luctantly decided,  in  view  of  the  long  journey  before  us,  to 
leave  this  somewhat  uncertain  expedition  until  another  time. 

"  Suppose  we  stop  at  Abbazia  for  a  few  days  before 
plunging  into  the  darkness  of  Dalmatia?"  quizzically  asked 
the  Leader,  knowing  that  a  comfortable  hotel  between  the 
mountains  and  the  sea  delighted  the  heart  of  his  companion. 
'Tt  is  but  a  short  detour  from  our  road." 

"With  a  garden,  too,  the  guide-book  says,"  she  added 
joyously. 

So  leaving  the  gay  city  of  Trieste,  we  climbed  the  heights 
above  it,  enjoying  delightful  views  over  Muggia  and  Istria 
and  the  deep  blue  bays  of  the  Adriatic.    Up  and  down  the 

28 


TRIESTE    TO    ABBAZIA 

rolling  surface  of  the  high  plateau  we  bowled,  and  at  each 
new  mountain  range  one  of  us  would  exclaim:  ''Is  that 
Dalmatia?"  But  a  negative  nod  was  all  that  we  received 
from  the  figure  on  the  front  seat  busily  engaged  in  watching 
the  new  roads  and  changing  scenes.  Women  in  groups  were 
walking  briskly  along  the  highway,  a  huge  basket  of  market- 
ing lightly  poised  on  each  sleek  head,  big  milk  cans  slung 
over  their  shoulders,  and  a  broad  smile  of  sympathetic 
enjoyment  on  their  heavy  features  as  they  slowly  turned 
and  watched  us. 

"What  have  they  in  their  hands?"  asked  Madame 
Content.     "Every  one  has  the  same  thing." 

"It  is  an  olive  branch,"  answered  the  Enthusiast  quietly. 
"To-morrow  is  Palm  Sunday." 

What  a  desolate  country!  Only  an  occasional  farm- 
house, or  here  and  there  a  copse  of  pines  breaks  the  monotony 
of  the  rock-covered  plain.  On  our  left  the  Gran  Kapella 
range  of  Croatian  mountains  are  covered  with  snow;  but 
here  there  is  no  sign  of  water,  neither  river,  brook,  nor  well, 
except  an  occasional  muddy  reservoir  by  the  side  of  the  road. 
Dotted  among  the  rocks,  at  irregular  intervals,  are  curious 
crater-like  pits  of  varying  sizes,  into  which  the  rain  has 
washed  the  alluvial  soil;  and  wherever  these  moist  hollows 
occur  the  grass  grows  vividly  green,  in  sharp  relief  to  the 
dreary  grayness  of  the  landscape.  These  oases  in  the  desert 
are  the  only  possible  places  where  crops  can  be  raised. 

Later  on,  the  road  climbs  high  hills  and  winds  through 
small  hamlets  whose  names  are  generally  conspicuously 
posted  in  two  languages.     At  Castelnuovo  there  is  actually 

29 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

an  inn,  —  "Narodni  Dom."  We  note  it  carefully  in  case  of 
accident  and  here  we  first  see  some  of  the  pretty  native  cos- 
tumes. A  sky-blue,  knee-length  full  skirt  trimmed  with  a 
broad  white  band,  white  blouse  and  stockings,  sandals,  a  red 
cap,  and  fichu  form  a  combination  both  patriotic  and  gay! 
The  names  of  the  villages  become  more  Slavic,  —  Hrusica, 
Racice,  Pasjak,  and  before  we  reach  Pasjak,  just  below  the 
top  of  the  pass  a  gorgeous  panorama  unfolds  itself  of  moun- 
tains and  islands  and  sea.  Did  Theodoric,  king  of  the 
Ostrogoths,  look  down  from  this  height,  when  with  an  army 
of  two  hundred  thousand  men,  their  families  and  goods,  he 
marched  from  Moesia  for  the  conquest  of  Italy  in  489  A.  D.  ? 
Was  it  across  this  very  region  that  in  the  sixth  century  the 
Lombards  swept  when  led  by  Alboin  they  poured  down  mur- 
derous hordes  over  the  cliffs  upon  the  Roman  city  of  Ter- 
geste?  Surely  over  that  snowy  mountain  range  the  Slavs 
and  Avars  advanced  in  that  singular  "wandering  of  the 
tribes"  of  the  seventh  century. 

But  my  thoughts  were  brought  back  to  the  present  with  a 
jerk,  —  for,  turning  a  sudden  corner,  we  met  a  mail-carrier's 
cart.  His  horse  plunged  and  snorted  with  terror  at  sight 
of  our  car.  Of  course  we  stopped  and  the  men  rushed  to 
the  rescue,  but  by  this  time  the  horse  had  jumped  over  the 
stone  wall  and  was  drawn  back  on  his  haunches  by  the 
cart  which  remained  partially  in  the  road.  Fortunately 
the  post-man  held  onto  the  reins  with  all  his  might  and  in 
time  the  terrified  animal  was  pacified.  We  looked  at  one 
another  in  dismay  and  wondered  whether  all  the  horses  in 
Dalmatia  were  going  to  behave  like  this  one! 

30 


A  xAinr:  oi'  ariu-;  at  aubazia 

THE   water   liUCKET   OF    THESE   SEAVIC   C<)UXTKH':S 


TRIESTE    TO    ABBAZIA 

Over  the  summit  of  the  pass  we  bowled  and  at  Sapjane 
coasted  down  again ;  but  a  short  distance  beyond  began  an- 
other pass.  In  the  fifteenth  century  when  the  Venetians  and 
Counts  of  Gorizia  attempted  to  divert  the  commerce  of  the 
interior  to  their  own  ports  of  Muggia  and  Pirano,  the 
Triestini  rose  in  their  wrath  and  fortified  these  very  passes 
in  a  struggle  to  keep  by  force  their  commercial  privileges. 
Now  the  road  is  maintained  in  good  condition  for  artillery 
and  leads  through  forests  of  young  oaks  into  Croatia. 

A  girl,  with  a  mountain  basket  on  her  back,  passed  us. 
Then  a  group  of  women  in  native  costumes.  This  time  the 
skirts  were  black  with  a  red  band  and  short  enough  to  show 
the  white  skirts  below;  the  black  sleeveless  jacket  trimmed 
with  red  opened  over  a  white  blouse  made  with  full  sleeves. 
The  whole  had  a  charming  effect. 

Near  Spincici,  sixty-eight  kilometers  from  Trieste,  we 
stopped  again  for  the  view.  Far  below  us,  the  rock-girt  island 
of  Cherso  extended  its  narrow  length;  to  the  right  the 
houses  of  Abbazia  lay  white  against  the  sea;  and  Monte 
Maggiore,  its  summit  tipped  with  snow,  rose  in  graceful  long 
lines,  —  seeming  to  hold  the  little  village  in  its  protecting 
arms.  The  coast  beyond  jutted  into  the  water  in  a  series  of 
projecting  points,  small  islands  detached  themselves  in  the 
scattering  haze,  and  in  the  Canale  di  Farasina  a  ship  under 
full  sail  cast  exquisite  reflections  on  the  glassy  sea. 

At  Castua  we  left  the  highway,  which  went  on  to  Fiume, 
and  began  the  descent  to  Abbazia.  The  island  of  Veglia  came 
in  sight  as  we  passed  the  extensive  stone  quarries  of  Preluka. 
Then  we  wound  down  bend  after  bend  of  the  stony  road, 

31 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

very  narrow  and  very  steep.  At  short  distances  diagonal 
gullies  were  placed  to  carry  off  the  water.  Later  we  were  to 
learn  that  this  senseless  and  very  uncomfortable  arrangement 
is  a  favorite  method  with  Croatian  roadmakers.  The  hill- 
sides were  clothed  with  pine  forests  and  in  sheltered  corners 
peach-trees  were  bursting  into  blossom.  As  we  swung  into 
the  long  street  of  Abbazia,  the  horse  chestnuts  lining  it  tossed 
flowery  bells  upon  us,  and  the  sails  of  the  fishing  boats  in  the 
harbor  nodded  a  bright  welcome.  How  beautiful!  What 
richness  of  coloring!  What  pictures  at  every  turn !  So  this 
is  Abbazia! 

There  is  a  charming  shore  walk  built  against  the  crags 
and  sheltered  by  twisted  pines  leading  to  Icici  and  Ika, 
which  tempted  us  forth  that  day  after  the  showers.  The 
Croatian  Alps  loomed  mysteriously  out  of  the  early  twi- 
light, and  far  in  the  distance,  faintly  outlined  in  the  gray, 
rose  the  rocky  islets  of  the  Dalmatian  coast.  How  fear- 
less the  birds  were!  The  Italian  storno  whose  acquaint- 
ance I  had  made  in  a  villa  near  Rome  sang  his  sweet  song 
close  by  us,  and  my  Miramar  jewel  fluttered  down  from  the 
tangle  to  pick  up  a  tidbit  in  the  path. 

Another  day  we  took  a  walk  up  into  the  hills,  where  all 
the  paths  are  marked  in  different  colors,  with  guide-posts 
at  the  puzzling  corners  and  distances  measured  by  time! 
"Zu  den  Kaiser  Franz  Josef's  Anlagen,  5  min."  On  the 
Jurasevo  Ulica  the  blue  lobelia  and  the  low  pinkish  mint 
pushed  their  bright  flowers  from  under  the  thick  barberry 
bushes,  big  chestnuts  towered  above  the  evergreen  laurel, 
the  elms  on  the  southern  slope  of  the  hill  were  painting  it  a 

32 


TRIESTE    TO    ABBAZIA 

delicate  green,  the  spiky  smilax  looked  delicate  and  sensitive 
until  you  touched  its  sharp  and  unyielding  leaves.  And  by 
the  way,  this  plant  does  make  the  finest,  most  picturesque 
brooms,  quite  as  effective  as  our  own  more  conventional  pat- 
tern. The  method  is  so  simple,  too.  Tie  the  bush  on  the 
end  of  a  pole  and,  behold!  it  is  ready  for  use. 

"These  paths  are  well  made,"  commented  the  Enthusi- 
ast. "Even  after  the  heavy  rains  of  last  night  they  are  per- 
fectly dry."  About  five  feet  wide,  of  fine,  well-packed  gravel, 
they  wind  by  easy  grades  along  the  flowery  hillsides  and  at 
each  new  viewpoint  a  comfortable  bench  invites  to  rest. 

"Look  at  those  peasants  coming  up  the  hill,"  cried  the 
Enthusiast  a  moment  later;  " they  are  really  in  costume.  Do 
you  suppose  they  would  care  if  I  kodaked  them?" 

"The  poor  things! "  exclaimed  Madame  Content.  " Can 
it  be  coal  they  are  carrying  on  their  backs?"  Coal  it  was, 
in  cumbersome  flat  wooden  barrels,  strapped  on  their  backs! 
And  these  women,  their  skirts  tucked  up,  were  actually 
laughing  and  chatting  as  they  mounted  the  steep  ascent,  bent 
nearly  double  beneath  their  loads.  To  such  an  extent  can 
habit  harden  one ! 

On  the  promenade  of  this  fashionable  watering  place,  a 
portly  peasant  attracted  much  attention  by  her  orange  stock- 
ings thrown  into  strong  relief  by  her  full,  dark  blue  skirt 
reaching  barely  to  the  knee.  The  pale  blue,  tight-fitting 
basque  came  down  six  inches  below  her  waist,  making  a  frill 
over  the  hips,  —  thus  accentuating  their  already  dispropor- 
tionate size ;  around  her  neck  lay  a  wide  frill  of  white  netting, 
and  her  head  was  covered  with  a  scarlet  turban,  one  end  of 

33 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

which  hung  in  a  flat  wide  sash  to  her  waist.  She  was  truly  a 
gorgeous  sight  and  the  fashion  plates  paled  before  her. 

About  five  miles  beyond  Abbazia  is  another  winter  resort, 
Lovrana,  —  less  fashionable,  perhaps,  than  her  frivolous 
neighbor  but  with  pretty  villas  by  the  sea  and  charming 
walks  on  the  hillsides.  Her  tiny  harbor  was  alive  with  color 
and  movement.  The  sails  swayed  in  the  gentle  breezes  and 
the  fishermen  seemed  to  have  leisure  to  spin  endless  yarns  as 
they  sat  on  the  sand  and  mended  their  brown  nets.  We  fol- 
lowed a  band  of  wandering  musicians  to  watch  the  street 
children  dance  in  an  abandon  of  joyous  passion  to  the  deep 
notes  of  an  old  trombone.  In  this  diversion,  at  least,  all 
nations  join  in  sympathy  and  racial  difficulties  are  momen- 
tarily forgotten. 

I  think  it  must  have  been  a  native  from  the  island  of 
Arbe  whom  we  met  one  morning  walking  rapidly  down  the 
main  street  in  Abbazia,  carrying  somebody's  carefully  pre- 
pared dinner.  Her  long,  red-figured  apron  trimmed  with 
white  lace  almost  covered  her  dark  skirt  and  reached  just 
below  her  knee.  Black  shoes  and  stockings  protected  her 
liberal  proportions,  and  her  bright  blue  figured  basque,  with 
tight-fitting  sleeves,  added  the  proper  amount  of  color  to  her 
costume.  She  had  chosen  a  black  velvet  fringed  kerchief 
for  her  head,  with  but  a  narrow  border  of  those  gay  brocaded 
flowers  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  mountaineer.  How  soft, 
yet  brilliant  were  her  large  dark  eyes!  With  what  splendid 
freedom  she  walked!  Truly  one  sacrifices  something  to  be 
civilized ! 

Perhaps  it  was  this  train  of  thought  which  prompted  the 

34 


TRIESTE    TO    ABBAZIA 

Gentle  Lady,  one  cloudy  morning,  to  exclaim  unexpectedly, 
"I  am  terribly  tired  of  'Tag'-ing  people!"  We  laughed,  but 
we  sympathized  with  her;  —  for  there  did  seem,  to  our 
Western  ideas,  a  plethora  of  politeness.  The  elevator  boy 
takes  off  his  cap  and  makes  an  elaborate  bow  when  we  arrive 
at  our  floor,  breaking  into  '^Guten  Tag,^'  no  matter  how 
many  times  a  day  we  ride  up  and  down.  A  maid  disappear- 
ing around  a  corner  in  the  corridor  docs  not  forget  to  send 
an  explosive  '^Guten  Tag'^  echoing  down  the  long  expanse. 
The  waiter  who  passes  you,  the  porter  busy  at  his  desk,  the 
errand  boy  at  his  manifold  duties,  never  fails  to  ^'Guten 
Tag.'"  It  is  all  very  well  if  we  might  accept  and  ignore  it, 
but  this  is  impossible.  It  would  be  the  height  of  rudeness 
not  to  respond.  Fortunately  a  plain  '*  Tag^^  uttered  explo- 
sively satisfies  the  demands  of  etiquette,  and  if  on; enter- 
ing or  leaving  a  shop,  I  forget  the  magic  formula,  a  gentle 
poke  from  Madame  Content  never  fails  to  bring  it  forth. 

"What  a  queer-shaped  under  part  that  desk  chair  has!" 
the  Enthusiast  exclaimed  casually  one  day,  as  from  the  sofa 
where  she  was  lounging  she  contemplated  the  Gentle  Lady, 
busy  at  her  diary. 

"Yes?"  remarked  the  latter  absently. 

"What  do  you  suppose  it  is  for?"  continued  the  Persis- 
tent One.  "See  —  that  other  one  at  the  dressing  table  is 
just  Hke  it!  Why,  they're  all  alike!  Perhaps  they  were 
made  that  way  to  kneel  upon  if  used  for  a  church  service." 
The  Enthusiast  was  thinking  aloud. 

"They  hardly  project  enough  for  that,"  remarked  the 
Gentle  Lady,  turning  around  to  inspect  hers  more  closely. 

35 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

''Well,  perhaps  they  were  meant  for  foot-rests  if  the  floor 
is  draughty.  They  are  certainly  not  pretty.  They  look 
just  like  bootjacks." 

''Bootjacks!  Of  course."  The  Gentle  Lady  was  by 
this  time  fully  interested.  "That  is  just  what  they  are.  I 
used  to  find  those  queer  mediaeval  articles  in  my  room  in 
Germany,  I  remember." 

"Why,  yes,  they  must  be  for  the  army  officers  who  all 
wear  boots.  It  is  quite  a  sensible  idea  to  have  every  chair 
a  bootjack!" 

"Do  you  suppose  we  shall  ever  have  to  order  our  break- 
fast in  Slavic?"  asked  the  Enthusiast  anxiously.  "It's 
pretty  long." 

"How  does  it  sound  ?"  quizzically  demanded  the  Leader. 

"  Rather  odd.  Of  course  I  make  it  as  simple  as  possible. 
'  Coffee  with  milk,  bread  and  butter,  one  egg  boiled  four 
minutes.  Kafa  sa  miljeko,  hljeb  i  maslo,  jedan  jaje  rovita 
cetiri  niinut.^  "  I  finished  amid  peals  of  laughter  and  the 
commiserating  glances  of  my  companions. 

"I  do  hope  you  will  have  a  chance  to  use  that  carefully 
prepared  sentence,"  encouraged  the  Leader,  "but  I  would 
not  waste  time  learning  any  more." 

"Oh,  just  one  more,"  insisted  the  Enthusiast.  "I  feel 
sure  I  may  want  to  ask  the  name  of  a  village  or  a  flower  some- 
where, and  really  it 's  such  a  neat  phrase.  '  Kako  se  zove 
ova  selo?'  Say  it  fast  and  it  sounds  quite  Italian  except  the 
first  word." 

We  are  amused,  now,  when  we  think  of  our  elaborate 


36 


TRIESTE    TO    ABBAZIA 

preparations,  our  forebodings,  our  doubts  and  our  fears.  I 
must  confess  that  these  were  confined  to  the  feminine  camp, 
—  the  other  side  was  far  too  sensible  for  misgivings,  and  only 
filled  with  pleasurable  expectation  in  contemplating  our 
journey  into  the  wilds  of  Dalmatia. 


37 


CHAPTER  III 

ABBAZIA  TO   ZENGG 

TT  was  at  Abbazia  that  we  bade  a  long  farewell  to  our 
big  trunks  and  sent  them  to  await  us  in  Vienna.  For 
thenceforth  the  baggage  of  our  entire  party  was  to  be 
limited  to  such  as  we  could  stow  away  on  the  automobile. 
Our  car  was  of  28/32  H.  P.  with  a  double  phaeton  body 
and  a  Cape  cart  hood  and  carried  ninety  litres  of  gasoline 
in  the  tank  with  two  extra  tins  of  twelve  litres  each  strapped 
on  the  side.  In  Trieste  the  Leader  had  made  arrangements 
to  have  tires  forwarded  by  parcel-post  to  any  point  on  re- 
ceipt of  a  telegram,  so  we  took  only  three  extra  ones  with  us. 
Two  good-sized  trunks  were  strapped  on  behind,  the  hat- 
box  slipped  within  the  tires,  and  the  night  things  packed  in  a 
huge  sack  which  was  placed  in  the  tonneau. 

Dressed  in  cloth  suits  and  waterproofs  we  started  off 
amid  discouraging  reports  about  roads,  after  heavy  rains, 
but  with  immense  determination  and  a  large  stock  of  enthu- 
siasm. How  lovely  was  the  view  back  over  Abbazia,  the 
bay  and  the  islands  streaked  with  sunlight  as  we  climbed 
the  hill  that  windy  morning  on  the  first  stage  of  our 
journey  toward  Dalmatia!  The  air  was  mild;  but  the 
roads,  sticky  after  the  rains,  degenerated  into  deep  holes 
at  Fiume.  Bumping  and  splashing  through  seas  of  mud 
and  water,  sometimes  in  dangerous  proximity  to  great  vans 
loaded  with  coal  or  stone  or  hogsheads  of  wine,  we  labored 

38 


ABBAZIA    TO    ZENGG 

by  the  wharves  and  soon  rolled  smoothly  over  the  pavement 
of  stone  slabs  before  the  government  building  and  park.  A 
ruined  castle  on  a  height  beyond  Fiume  presented  an  effec- 
tive picture,  but  we  were  looking,  more  or  less  openly,  for 
guide-posts.  Oh!  in  the  distance  one  is  seen.  We  apn 
proach : 

''UDragU4K." 

We  search  the  maps  in  vain  for  "Dragu"  or  any  similar 
name;  perhaps  it  is  too  small  a  place  to  be  mentioned, 
perhaps  it  has  another  name  entirely  in  Hungarian,  for 
no  two  words  could  be  more  dissimilar  than  Fiume  and 
Rjeka, — yet  they  are  one  and  the  same  city.  This  diffi- 
culty of  having  at  least  two  distinct  names  for  each  town, 
we  soon  discovered,  was  universal  in  this  Balkan  region. 
The  only  way  is  to  know  them  both. 

"We  have  seen,  now,  the  one  seaport  of  Hungary,'* 
remarked  the  Leader,  "  and  should  soon  be  in  Croatia." 
Even  as  he  spoke  we  crossed  the  ravine  where  flows  the 
stream  which  has  always  been  the  boundary  of  the  Croatian 
kingdom. 

Passing  under  the  railroad  which  connects  Fiume  with 
Agram,  we  climb  a  steep  grade,  thankful  that  the  road  is 
dry.  The  lilacs  are  budding,  and  the  April  morning  seems 
•"^uite  like  our  own  springtime.  Another  guide-post,  but 
this  time  without  a  directing  finger! 

"USasakaK." 
As  this  is  a  suburb  of  Fiume,  "  u  "  evidently  means  ''to." 
We  mount  a  fearful  grade  and  go  down  one  equally  vertical 
into  Draga.     The  hawthorn  hedges  are  in  blossom  and  in 

39 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

this  sheltered  valley  vines  are  trained  on  the  sunny  slopes. 
The  road  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  a  scenic  railway 
with  its  steep  ups  and  downs.  There  is  no  attempt  at  grad- 
ing but  the  track  is  fairly  worn.  Fruit-trees  are  in  blossom, 
plums  and  almonds,  cherries  and  peaches.  A  little  chap 
herding  sheep  by  the  wayside,  terrified  at  sight  of  us,  forgets 
his  precious  charges  and  rushes  into  a  cave  to  hide  his  face 
until  we  have  passed.  Near  ''U  Bakar  3  K."  we  stop  for 
the  lovely  view  over  the  Bay  of  Buccari.  It  is  like  an  inland 
sea,  surrounded  by  high  hills  cultivated  in  terraces  to  the  top, 
amidst  which  nestle  the  clustered  houses  of  Meja  and  Dol- 
mali.  A  steamer  with  rippling  wake  slips  noiselessly  toward 
the  town  of  Bakar,  or  Baccari,  which,  crowned  by  its  church 
spire,  rises  in  soft  rose  tints  from  the  water's  edge.  At  the 
foot  of  the  long  descent  the  Hotel  Jadran  on  the  quay  seems 
so  neat  and  inviting  that  we  are  tempted  to  alight.  Indeed, 
the  whole  town  is  conspicuously  well-kept  and  we  look  back 
across  the  water  many  times  to  its  attractive  situation  upon 
the  sheltering  slopes. 

''Kraljevica"  says  the  next  guide-post,  but  our  maps 
scorn  these  high-sounding  syllables.  A  small  boy  by  the 
roadside  points  straight  ahead  in  response  to  our  raised  eye- 
brows and  gesticulations;  but  an  approaching  teamster 
differs  from  him  and  insists  on  the  other  cross-road.  They 
speak  only  Croatian,  but  their  meaning  is  unmistakable, 
and  we  discover,  later  on,  that  both  are  right,  as  the  two 
roads  soon  become  one. 

On  a  commanding  point  where  the  Bay  of  Buccari  joins 
the  sea,  stands  a  square  mediaeval  castle  built  by  the  Frangi- 

40 


THE    IKITEI.    XV    CRKNENTCA 


ABBAZIA    TO    ZENGG 

pani.  Porto  Re  is  the  name  of  the  settlement  and  so  well 
protected  is  its  harbor  that  Napoleon  had  intended  to  estab- 
lish an  arsenal  here.  Now,  however,  the  castle  has  been 
modernized,  painted  yellow,  and  is  used  by  the  Society  of 
Jesuits.  High  above  it  we  obtain  a  splendid  panorama  of 
blue  mountains  above  azure  water.  The  roads  arc  dry  and 
hard  and  in  due  time  we  come  to  Kraljevica,  a  common- 
place collection  of  scattered  houses. 

Continuing  our  journey,  the  canal  of  Maltempo,  separat- 
ing the  rocky  gray  plateau  of  the  island  of  Veglia  from  the 
mainland,  soon  appears  below  us,  and,  beyond,  fjord-Hke 
basins  ghsten,  ships  look  like  toys  upon  the  water,  and  the 
guide-posts  begin  to  be  marked  "Crkvenica."  Past  Suriki 
and  Smokovo  and  Klanfari  we  descend,  midst  fruit  and 
grain  farms,  pastures  and  olive  groves,  down  and  ever  down 
toward  the  rippling  sea.  It  is  nearly  noon  when  we  stop 
before  the  big  Therapia  Palace  Hotel  on  the  outskirt  of 
Crkvenica.  Here  it  is  really  warm.  The  sun  pours  down 
upon  the  long  pier,  the  bath  houses,  the  avenue  of  kiri-trees 
along  the  beach,  the  music  pavilion,  and  the  newly  laid  out 
gardens  of  the  hotel. 

Although  this  is  a  favorite  resort  of  the  Croatians,  there 
were  not  many  people  in  the  house.  We  had  an  excellent 
luncheon  and  were  interested  in  noting  the  difference  in 
customs  between  this  and  other  lands.  For  instance,  it 
looked  a  trifle  odd  to  us,  —  provincial  as  we  are,  perhaps, — 
to  see  prim,  elderly,  very  proper-looking  ladies  enjoying 
their  after-dinner  cigarette ;  even  the  clergyman's  wife  join- 
ing them,  quite  unconscious  of  the  commotion  she  was 

41 


MOTORING   IN    THE    BALKANS 

creating  in  the  minds  of  those  "singular  Americans."  From 
beneath  the  lowered  awnings,  we  looked  upon  the  fishing- 
smacks  drifting  lazily  on  the  wide  Morlacca,  a  scattering 
village  outlining  the  near  shore,  and  a  passing  steamer  going 
across  to  Veglia.  It  was  all  very  quiet  and  restful.  Three 
hours  can  do  wonders  for  tired  senses  and  we  renewed  our 
journey  with  zest. 

"Gasoline?  Why  certainly,  —  up  the  Vinodol.  I  will 
go  with  you,"  the  porter  insisted,  "  and  show  you  the 
way." 

What  a  charming  little  valley  we  ran  into,  this  one  of 
Vinodol!  A  dancing  stream,  a  rustic  bridge,  overhanging 
oaks,  young  elms  in  winged  blossom,  and  people  so  gay,  so 
friendly!  Imagine  women  being  gay  when  carrying  baskets 
of  rocks  from  a  quarry  to  a  wagon!  Imagine  being  on  good 
terms  with  hfe  on  thirty-two  cents  a  day!  Imagine  women 
who  really  seem  to  enjoy  the  making  of  roads!  One 
balanced  a  heavy  table  on  her  head  as  she  climbed  the  hill. 
A  tiny  child  of  five  running  beside  her  already  had  her  bun- 
dle strapped  upon  her  back,  in  imitation  of  her  elders.  Here 
at  the  mill  where  we  bought  the  gasoline,  we  found  that  the 
overseer  had  been  in  America;  he  had  worked  in  the  mines 
of  West  Virginia  and  Pennsylvania,  he  said.  Now  he  was 
home  again,  very  much  looked  up  to,  evidently,  as  a  travelled 
personage. 

Returning  to  the  village  of  Crkvenica,  we  paused  to  see 
the  picturesque  water  front.  The  stone  embankment  with 
its  many  iron  rings  for  mooring  was  a  dehght  to  watch. 
Row-boats  and  sail-boats,  fishing-boats  and  market-boats, 

42 


ABBAZIA    TO    ZENGG 

ferry-boats  and  even  an  occasional  steam-boat,  made  enough 
color  to  run  the  gamut  of  the  spectroscope. 

Speeding  onwards  over  an  ancient  five-arched  bridge,  past 
a  castle  of  the  Frangipani,  we  catch  wonderful  effects  of 
light  as  the  sun  touches  the  sea,  the  valley,  and  the  moun- 
tain peaks  with  slender,  swiftly  moving  fingers.  Our  route 
follows  the  water,  although  high  above  it,  and  we  look  down 
on  fishermen  in  small  boats  and  on  shore,  drawing  in  a  huge 
seine  with  its  wooden  floats.  Is  it  tunny  fishing?  They 
pause  to  look  up  with  flashing  smiles  as  we  fly  by.  We  climb 
by  a  steep  ascent  over  a  neck  of  land,  and  on  the  other  side, 
far  below  us,  appears  the  tiny  harbor  of  Novi.  How  favor- 
ably this  ravishing  drive  compares  with  the  famous  Cornice ! 
Opalescent  mountains  reflect  the  scurrying  clouds.  At  their 
base  lies  the  town  of  Novi  in  shades  of  mellow  brown,  roofs 
and  walls  one  blended  whole;  —  an  occasional  blue  or 
green  door,  delicately  distinct,  only  emphasizing  the  general 
tone.  Up  from  the  water's  edge,  in  long  flights  of  steps, 
rise  all  the  city  streets.  The  women  rub  their  eyes  and  blink 
in  startled  wonder  as  we  sweep  by  them.  The  road  is  firm 
and  dry,  if  somewhat  narrow,  and  it  is  remarkable  that  not 
a  wagon  have  we  passed  to-day.  But  what  need  of  wagons 
or  animals  to  draw  them  when  the  women  are  such  beasts 
of  burden?  We  meet  one  ''happy  pair,"  —  she  staggering 
under  an  enormous  load  of  fagots,  he  carrying  the  axe ! 

Still  following  the  convolutions  of  the  coast,  we  climb 
to  the  Karst  again.  The  Karst  has  been  defined  as  "  a  coun- 
try covered  with  loose  splintered  rocks  which  the  land 
'grows'  faster  than  they  can  be  picked  off  it,  although  the 

43 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

great  heaps  that  divide  field  from  field  cover  more  ground 
than  they  leave  exposed  for  cultivation."  How  precious  one 
square  mile  of  this  dreary  waste  would  be,  transported  to 
the  stoneless  prairies  of  America  where  the  occasional 
gravel  pit  proves  a  gold-mine  to  its  discoverer  and  the  only 
road-dressing  procurable  is  from  the  banks  of  streams  and 

lakes! 

However,  in  Croatia  the  Karst  fails  to  be  appreciated  — 
there  is  too  much  of  it.  Between  barren  boulders  the  sheep 
search  industriously  for  food;  a  bit  of  genista  hangs  out  its 
yellow  banner  from  beneath  a  projecting  crag;  there  is  not  a 
tree  in  sight,  —  only  sage-brush  and  the  endless  ruin  of  the 
jagged  rocks.  Suddenly  below  us  shines  a  deep  inlet  of  the 
sea,  and  as  we  cross  the  promontory  we  pause  on  the  ridge 
to  enjoy  the  backward  view.  Dark  clouds  are  rushing  over 
the  sky,  casting  weird  shadows  upon  dancing  water  and  cas- 
tellated islands.  Before  us,  wandering  up  the  bare  gray 
mountain  side,  our  road  appears,  a  narrow  dust-colored  line. 

Crossing  this  last  barrier  we  come  upon  signs  of  habita- 
tion, green  almond-trees  grow  on  the  southern  terraces, 
young  calves,  nibbling  at  an  invisible  herbage,  surround  our 
car  in  dazed  fearlessness.  A  platform  near  the  road  is  pro- 
tected on  the  two  sides  whence  blows  the  Bora  by  high  stone 
walls  and  in  the  centre  bears  that  great  blessing  of  the  Orient, 
a  deep  cool  well.  We  are  nearing  Senj,  Segna,  or  Zengg, 
now,  and  soon  catch  sight  of  it  through  the  falling  mist. 

"And  the  pirates?"  demands  the  Enthusiast,  for  the 
surroundings  are  so  very  propitious  and  the  former  inhabi- 
tants so  notorious.     "Do  you  see  any?" 

44 


ABBAZIA    TO    ZENGG 

"Oh!  there's  no  danger  here,"  quoth  the  Leader. 
"Those  red-capped  groups  in  the  harbor  are  only  innocent 
fishermen  about  their  daily  toil." 

We  peered  anxiously  from  beneath  the  curtains  as  we 
thundered  through  the  mediaeval  gateway  and  dashed  across 
the  square  to  a  neat-looking  building  marked  Hotel  Zagreb. 

"But  our  hotel  is  the  Agram,"  ventured  the  Enthusiast. 

"Well,  Zagreb  is  Croatian  for  Agram."  And  my  wonder 
was  increased,  for  the  hundredth  time,  as  to  how  it  was  pos- 
sible for  the  early  geographers  to  evolve  the  names  they  did 
from  the  native  words. 

A  cheery  landlady  came  from  the  tiny  box  of  a  kitchen 
in  the  centre  of  the  house  and  led  us  up  two  flights  of  steep 
and  shining  stairs.  With  conscious  pride,  throwing  open 
the  door  of  a  spotless  chamber,  she  preceded  us  to  open  a 
small  compartment  in  the  double  windows  and  to  watch 
our  faces  when,  our  veils  being  removed,  the  full  splendor 
of  her  best  apartment  should  burst  upon  us.  For  although 
we  had  sent  no  word  it  was  evident  that  some  one  was  ex- 
pected. The  immaculate  sheets  were  turned  half-way 
down  the  bed,  over  tufted  satin  quilts;  the  rufiled  and 
embroidered  pillow  cases  glistened;  a  vase  of  bright  arti- 
ficial flowers  ornamented  the  columnar  stove  in  the  corner; 
and  Dresden  shepherdesses  looked  coyly  down  at  more  ordi- 
nary bric-a-brac  upon  the  whatnot.  A  gracefully  shaped 
glass  pitcher  stood  in  the  porcelain-lined  tin  bowl  on  the 
washstand  and  plenty  of  fresh  towels  were  brought.  Only 
the  landlady  herself  seemed  to  understand  German,  so  all 
orders  were  given  through  her.     With  the  big-eyed  Croatian 

45 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

maiden  we  found  gesticulations  ample  and  sufficient.  After 
all,  our  needs  were  few  —  something  to  eat  and  a  clean  bed. 
It  did  not  seem  exacting. 

We  wandered  out  to  the  quay  through  the  narrow  wind- 
ing streets  and  from  the  pier  looked  back  beyond  the  ware- 
houses to  the  Nahaj  Castle  on  the  hill  —  a  likely  place  indeed 
for  a  pirate  band ;  but  we  saw  nothing  piratical  on  the  slum- 
bering sunlit  shore,  or  even  in  the  tortuous  streets  of  the  tiny 
town.  A  quiet  good-nature  seemed  to  prevail  and  every- 
where we  were  sped  on  our  way  with  the  greeting,  ^'Kiiss 
die  Hand.^^ 


46 


CHAPTER  IV 

ZENGG   TO   GOSPIC  — OVER    THE   VRATNIK    PASS 

TJERY  early  the  next  morning  our  party  is  perforce  awake 
for  there  are  no  shades  or  curtains  or  bhnds  to  shut  out 
the  brilliant  light.  Already  the  city  is  astir,  and  at  the  foun- 
tain in  the  public  square  a  girl  is  filling  her  wooden  tub.  How 
is  she  going  to  carry  it  away?  To  my  amazement  she  lifts 
it  lightly  to  her  head,  balances  it  deftly,  and  walks  up  the 
hill  without  spilling  a  drop.  Before  our  breakfast  is  ready 
she  is  back  again  and  as  she  trips  along  with  a  peculiar  lilt- 
ing motion  the  water  dances  in  little  pointed  wavelets  in  the 
tub  but  it  never  dances  out.  Boys,  great  and  small,  many  of 
them  wearing  the  Croatian  cap,  crowd  around  the  automobile 
intensely  interested  in  every  detail ;  but  with  a  politeness  of 
demeanor  that  reassures  us. 

We  are  susceptible  to  each  new  impression  this  morning 
and  an  unwonted  air  of  excitement  seems  to  pervade  our 
party,  for  to-day  we  are  to  enter  the  promised  land ;  —  to-day 
we  are  to  try  strange  routes  and  cross  the  mountain  passes 
of  Vratnik  and  Mali  Halan.  What  knowledge  we  have 
been  able  to  acquire  is  so  meagre,  so  contradictory,  that  it 
really  is  with  a  thrill  of  prospective  adventure  that  we  leave 
our  friendly  Hotel  Zagreb  and  set  out  at  last  for  Dalmatia. 

There  is  a  coast  road  as  far  as  Carlopago,  thence  to 
Gospic ;  but  being  assured  that  the  better  route  lies  straight 
inland  we  leave  the  sea  and  start  up  the  valley  where  the 
blue  hills  overlap.     On  the   southern  slope  the  trees  are 

47 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

already  tinged  with  green  and  the  sun  shines  in  brilHant 
patches  from  a  wind-swept  sky. 

It  is  indeed  a  day  for  adventures.  Should  one  of  the 
Frangipani,  who  were  masters  of  this  territory  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  appear,  surrounded  by  his  body-guard,  to 
demand  toll  from  this  new  invasion,  it  would  not  sur- 
prise us.  Or  should  the  Uscocs  dart  from  any  one  of  the 
many  convenient  ambushes,  it  would  seem  quite  natural  and 
fitting.  The  original  Uscocs  were  honest  men  when  driven  by 
the  Turks  from  Bulgaria,  Servia,  and  Bosnia  to  find  refuge, 
first  in  Clissa,  and  then  in  Zengg  under  the  protection  of  Ferdi- 
nand of  Austria.  Here,  at  first,  they  made  an  ideal  frontier 
guard  against  the  Turks;  but  after  being  checked  in  that 
direction  they  turned  their  attention  to  the  sea,  degenerating 
into  lawless  marauders,  attracting  to  their  number  ad- 
venturers and  outlaws,  from  all  nations  and  "becoming  the 
terror  of  Christian  and  Moslem  ahke."  After  unheard-of 
atrocities  culminating  in  a  three  years'  war  between  Venice 
and  Austria,  in  1618  the  Uscocs  were  dispersed  and  Zengg 
occupied  by  German  troops;  but  the  pirate  tales  of  bar- 
baric bloodshed,  of  hideous  crimes  for  gain,  still  create  a 
background  of  darkness  and  gloom  which  enfolds  the 
harbor  of  Zengg  and  its  overhanging  rugged  heights. 

Up  these  heights  we  crawl  slowly  for  an  unexpected 
detail  delays  us ;  —  the  sharp  stones  of  the  road  are  well  worn 
down  in  two  fairly  smooth  ruts  and  we  might  mount  the 
somewhat  steep  incline  with  ease  were  it  not  for  the  cassis, 
or  bumps,  which  at  every  forty  feet  or  so  force  us  to  slow  down 
or  break  a  spring.     We  might  almost  as  well  ride  in  the  dry 

48 


ZENGG    TO    GOSPIC 

bed  of  the  torrent,  so  faithfully  do  we  follow  its  capricious 
bends.  Beside  us  a  whitewashed  chapel  lifts  its  tiny 
belfry  above  the  wooden  crosses  at  its  feet.  Up  and  up  we 
go  by  long  windings  on  the  mountain  side  until  at  length, 
far  above  us,  we  see  a  cleft  in  the  crags. 

''That,"  says  the  Leader,  pointing  to  it,  "is  where  our 
road  goes  through  and  over.  The  many  white  pyramids 
of  stones  which  dot  the  mountain  between  us  and  that  cleft 
show  where  the  route  lies,  and  are  ready  for  repairing  it." 

Below  us  the  inlets  of  the  sea  lie  like  crater  lakes  among 
the  peaks.  Although  we  have  passed  the  last  straggling 
pines  and  firs,  we  still  hear  bird  songs  above  the  hum  of  the 
machinery  and  catch  occasional  glimpses  of  the  happy  song- 
sters. "Bransevina"  we  read  on  a  sign-post  and  look  down 
sheer  two  thousand  feet  to  where  the  islands  seem  cut  in 
ivory  out  of  the  blue  water.  Even  far-away  Cherso  comes 
into  view  and  then  — 

Suddenly  a  loaded  wagon  drawn  by  two  horses  appears 
on  the  road  ahead  of  us.  Poor  things!  How  frightened 
they  are !  And  the  teamster  —  how  he  trembles  —  how  his 
teeth  chatter!  The  predicament  is  not  a  pleasant  one  for 
either  party,  as  there  is  no  parapet  to  the  road  and  the  dis- 
tance down  that  precipice  is  many  hundred  feet.  We  in- 
stantly stop  on  the  outside  and  the  chauffeur  talks  soothingly 
to  the  horses  and  rubs  their  noses  until  they  consent  to  be  led 
by  the  evidently  harmless  although  terrifying  monster.  The 
man  is  grateful  and  smiles  pleasantly  as  he  pursues  his  down- 
ward course  and  we  hope  fervently  that  we  may  not  meet 
many  vehicles  on  this  narrow  pass. 

4Q 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

Soon  after,  we  stop  at  a  wayside  spring  for  the  marvellous 
view  below  us.  Beyond  the  heights  of  Veglia  the  island 
of  Arbe  rises  like  a  shimmering  opal  out  of  the  turquoise  sea. 
The  play  of  color  on  her  shining  cliffs  changes  with  each 
dimpHng  cloud.  So  unearthly  is  the  vision  it  seems  floating 
in  ether  and  I  half  expect  anything  so  lovely  must  soon 
vanish  when  —  I  hear  a  sharp  click  beside  me  and  the  motor 
continues  its  climb. 

"This  is  the  top  of  the  Vratnik  Pass  [2326  feet],"  re- 
marks the  Leader,  as  we  slip  through  that  cleft  in  the  crags 
and  turn  away  from  the  shimmering  sea.  "We  have  taken 
fifty-nine  minutes  to  climb  fifteen  kilometers.  At  this  rate 
we  will  have  to  make  other  arrangements  for  the  night." 

The  road  is  very  muddy  from  recent  rains,  the  bumps 
are  farther  apart  now  for  we  are  on  a  high  plateau,  a  culti- 
vated open  country  with  wooded  hills  rising  on  either  side. 
Cattle  scramble  up  the  steep  inclines  like  goats  to  get  out  of 
our  way,  palisade-like  fences  take  the  place  of  stone  walls, 
snow  Hes  by  the  roadside.  "Vratniku  25  K.  Otocac," 
says  a  guide-post,  and  we  feel  encouraged,  for  Otocac  is 
our  first  halt. 

A  walled-in  well  and  a  few  scattered  adobe  huts  consti- 
tute this  settlement  of  Vratniku.  The  huts  are  shingled 
with  five  or  six  rows  of  long  "shakes"  and  in  lieu  of  a  chim- 
ney have  a  pointed  board  placed  at  a  slight  angle  from  a  hole 
in  the  roof.  Neatly  piled  stacks  of  white  birch-wood  stand 
beside  each  door.  We  soon  discover  that  this  primitive 
shelter  is  the  characteristic  Croatian  farmhouse,  differing 
only  in  proportions. 

50 


ZENGG    TO    GOSPIC 

"22  u  Otocac"  —  and  three  horses  abreast  stand  stiff 
with  horror  before  the  advancing  monstrosity.  Again  we 
stop  and  the  chauffeur  quiets  the  frightened  beasts.  The 
language  is  totally  unknown  to  them  but  the  tones  are  sooth- 
ing and  comforting  so  they  consent  to  be  led  by,  and  the 
strain  is  less  intense  since  this  time  we  are  not  on  the  ragged 
edge  of  a  precipice.  The  wild  hellebore  grows  rank  among 
the  stones,  a  hawk  circles  overhead,  gayly  marked  small 
birds  fly  from  the  corniolo^s  yellow  blossom,  and  prim- 
roses peep  from  beneath  a  tangle  of  dried  clematis. 

"Zatalowka,"  but  the  tiny  hamlet  is  soon  passed.  We 
are  on  the  great  plateau  of  the  Velebit  and  the  road  is 
drier  in  places.  Men  in  picturesque  costumes  consisting 
of  blue  sleeveless  coat,  white  woollen  stockings  drawn  over 
the  trousers  to  the  knee,  and  gaiters  above  the  string  sandal, 
or  opanka,  pass  us;  on  their  heads  is  the  inevitable  red 
Croatian  cap  and  they  carry  a  flat  bag  woven  of  horsehair 
with  red  fringe. 

A  tumble-down  chaise  appears  and  the  horses  threaten 
to  smash  it  in  their  struggles  to  get  away  from  us ;  but  noth- 
ing really  happens.  I  will  omit  our  further  experiences 
with  horses  on  this  one  day.  There  seems  to  be  a  certain 
monotony  in  the  teUing  of  them,  which,  however,  did  not 
pertain  to  the  reality!  At  the  time  there  were  always  ele- 
ments of  danger;  but  we  successfully  emerged  from  every 
one  of  our  ten  encounters.  Cisasitch  is  passed,  and  here  a 
road  leads  to  Dabar;  but  there  is  no  mistaking  our  own 
route  carefully  marked  with  guide-posts  from  the  top  of  the 
Vratnik  Pass. 

51 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

Near  Kompolje  our  exhaust  has  to  be  cleaned  from  the 
accumulated  mud,  and  I  welcome  every  stop,  as  there  is 
always  so  much  to  see.  Here  the  houses  resemble  Swiss 
chalets.  From  over  the  high-railed  wooden  balconies  the 
mountaineers  peer  at  us,  reserved  yet  friendly,  and  seem  less 
suspicious  than  the  inhabitants  of  the  coast. 

Eager  to  test  their  hospitality,  we  go  toward  one  of  the 
simple  dwellings,  and  as  we  approach  every  head  disappears 
from  the  balcony,  whether  in  dislike  of  my  kodak  or  fear  of 
ourselves,  we  cannot  tell;  but  after  a  moment's  delay  the 
mystery  is  solved,  for  all  the  family  have  rushed  down  to 
open  the  door  and  welcome  us.  They  stand  in  a  huddled 
group,  looking  at  us  curiously,  but  not  quite  certain  what  to 
do.  With  the  one  word  ^'voda^^  (water),  uttered  in  an  ap- 
pealing tone  and  with  a  gesture  of  drinking,  we  throw  our- 
selves upon  their  mercy.  Their  self-consciousness  vanishes 
in  flashing  smiles,  and  the  youngest  runs  inside  while  the 
older  ones  motion  us  to  enter.  An  unmistakable  odor 
of  onions  and  soup  rushes  out  through  the  half-opened 
doorway. 

"We  are  so  bundled  up,"  the  Gentle  Lady  explains;  — 
"will  they  pardon  us  for  not  accepting  their  invitation?"  I 
stare  in  amazement  at  the  variety  and  lucidity  of  her  gestures. 
When  the  girl  returns  with  two  cups  of  water  all  formality 
disappears.  How  good  it  tastes!  How  pleased  they  seem 
to  be  at  our  delight!  They  finger  frankly  our  strange  gar- 
ments; my  pongee  mackintosh  especially  amuses  them,  and 
the  one  who  discovers  the  rubber  lining  has  to  exhibit  it  to 
each  in  turn.     They  talk  all  the  time,  and  we  do  the  same, 

52 


ZENGG    TO    GOSPIC 

each  in  his  own  tongue;  the  tone,  the  inflection,  the  expres- 
sion, are  even  more  teUing  than  language.  By  the  time  the 
Leader  calls  us,  we  have  become  good  friends,  and  bid  these 
kindly  creatures  a  half-regretful  '' Au  revoir." 

Once  more  we  surmount  a  forest-covered  ridge,  and  from 
the  top  we  see  Otocac  in  the  distance.  It  is  nearly  eleven 
as  we  stop  at  the  "Oest  Automobil  Club  Auto-Benzin  und 
Oel  Station"  for  supplies,  and  are  immediately  surrounded 
by  a  crowd  in  holiday  attire. 

*'0h,  do  take  the  kodak  and  go  across  the  street,"  I 
beg  the  Leader,  who,  busy  about  his  gasoline,  looks  up  a 
bit  annoyed.  But  one  glance  at  the  picture  is  enough  for 
him,  and  he  obediently  seizes  the  kodak  and  crosses  the 
broad  street. 

*'If  it  would  only  take  color!"  I  cry  as  he  returns. 
"Do  see  this  beautiful  man  at  my  side."  By  this  time  we 
speak  our  minds  quite  freely  and  aloud,  for  English  is  a 
tongue  unknown  in  the  interior  of  Croatia.  The  "beau- 
tiful man"  is  meanwhile  devouring  with  his  big  eyes  every 
detail  of  the  mud-bespattered  car. 

"  Is  n't  that  white  knit  jacket  becoming  ?  And  do  you  see 
each  one  has  a  different  colored  border  and  cuffs  ?  Are  n't 
the  brass-studded  belts  effective?  And  did  you  ever  see 
such  long  pipes?"  The  women  wear  big  black  silk  aprons 
trimmed  with  white  lace  and  carry  the  gayest  of  tasselled 
bags,  large  enough  for  panniers  on  a  donkey's  back. 

From  the  neat-looking  inn  across  the  way,  from  the  feed 
store  and  the  low  houses,  come  slowly  a  gathering  throng, 
who,  —  making  the   henzin   seller  their   interpreter, —  ask 

53 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

intelligent  questions  of  our  Leader  as  to  our  nationality,  the 
distance  made  to-day,  and  our  destination.  The  word 
"America"  always  brings  a  glance  of  pleased  recognition. 
Is  it  not  the  dream  of  many  a  boy  to  some  day  visit  that 
wonderful  country  and,  of  course,  bring  home  a  fortune? 
Scarcely  a  hamlet  is  so  small  that  it  has  not  sent  at  least  one 
representative  to  the  New  World.  So  as  we  leave  Otocac 
the  people  speed  us  upon  our  way  with  pleasant  nods  and 
smiles  of  friendly  sympathy. 

"That  is  the  road  to  the  Plitvica  Lakes,"  calls  back 
the  Leader,  as  we  pass  a  post  which  says  "  u  Priboj."  "If 
it  were  later  in  the  season,  we  would  go  over  there  from  here, 
but  as  they  lie  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  I  am  afraid 
it  would  be  too  cold  just  now." 

As  we  cross  a  tiny  stream,  we  meet  a  cart,  whose  owner, 
fearing  to  pass  us,  turns  about  hurriedly  and  runs  before  us 
seeking  shelter;  in  his  anxiety  he  fails  to  notice  the  loss  of 
one  of  his  wheels!  It  is  a  comment  on  the  usual  roughness 
of  the  roads!  We  pick  up  the  wheel  and  carry  it  to  him 
where  he  is  waiting  in  a  hospitable  farmyard  and  he  re- 
ceives it  with  a  mingled  expression  of  amazement  and 
gratitude. 

Past  Lesce  and  a  cross  road  to  Ravljane,  we  climb  into 
a  charming  dale  where  the  Gacka  River  begins  its  gentle 
course.  A  mill  is  half  hidden  behind  low  falls;  a  group  of 
men  bow  poHtely  as  we  move  by ;  the  road  becomes  drier  as 
we  mount  a  long  well-graded  hill  with  pleasing  views  back 
over  the  grassy  valley  and  the  little  stream  meandering 
through  its  green  length.    We  have  time  to  enjoy  it,  for  our 

54 


ZENGG    TO    GOSPIC 

poor  engine  cannot  breathe,  the  radiator  is  so  choked  with 
mud.  Farther  on  we  enter  pine  forests  and  hills  of  spruce 
and  cedar,  —  then  snow  by  the  wayside  and  many  granite 
boulders. 

We  look  about  for  water,  to  replace  the  loss  caused  by 
the  overheating  of  the  engine.  Not  a  brook  nor  a  pool  any- 
where !  Finally  at  a  turn  in  the  road  a  house  appears  bearing 
the  welcome  sign  "Gostiona,''  (inn)  and  the  willing  peasant, 
in  response  to  our  gestures,  brings  out  a  pitcher  and  a  glass. 
We  point  to  the  engine,  and  pour  in  what  he  has  brought; 
when,  smiling  at  his  own  cleverness  in  comprehending  these 
queer  foreigners,  he  darts  toward  the  well  and  soon  reap- 
pears with  a  kerosene  can  full  of  water.  This  receptacle, 
fitted  with  a  wooden  bar  for  a  handle,  has  usurped  the  place 
of  the  pail  as  a  carrier  of  water  throughout  these  regions. 

"Gospic?"  we  ask  — for  we  are  growing  hungry.  "25 
K.,"  he  writes  on  a  slip  of  paper.  Luckily  figures  are  alike 
in  most  languages! 

We  thank  him  for  his  precious  draught,  and  go  on  our 
way  over  the  hilltops,  through  low  thickets  of  "  maquis'' 
and  masses  of  rock.  "  Maquis''  is  a  name  given  to  a  certain 
type  of  vegetation,  grayish  green  in  color,  which  abounds  on 
the  dry  boulder-strewn  slopes  of  the  Mediterranean  region. 
It  consists  of  aromatic  plants,  such  as  the  rosemary,  thyme, 
lavender,  myrtle,  mastic,  and  helichrysum,  with  cistus  of 
various  kinds,  oleaster,  and  lavendula,  intermingled  with 
the  buckthorn,  wild  olive,  and  juniper.  Their  perfume  is 
said  to  protect  them  from  animals,  and  they  are  able  to 
withstand  the  long  droughts  of  midsummer :   here  evidently 

55 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

the  same  conditions  prevail.  The  mountains  are  covered 
with  snow  on  our  right,  and  we  can  see  our  road  winding  in 
long  loops  up  the  other  side  of  the  valley.  In  the  deep  hol- 
lows the  crops  are  green  and  sheep  graze  among  the  stones. 
We  gain  another  crest,  —  two  thousand  and  eighty  feet,  — 
with  a  wonderful  glimpse  of  snow  fields  on  summits  veiled 
in  clouds. 

Past  the  towns  of  Kvarte  and  Perusic,  we  meet  four 
loaded  wagons  at  the  door  of  a  wayside  inn.  Fortunately 
the  men  are  inside  the  house  and  we  are  by  before  they  have 
a  chance  to  communicate  their  fright  to  the  dumb  beasts. 
The  lamb's-wool  horse-blankets,  dyed  in  brilliant  colors, 
contrast  gayly  with  the  grayness  of  the  road.  Flocks  of 
wheatears  flit  back  and  forth  across  our  way.  Such 
beautiful  creatures! 

Descending  into  a  plain  of  ploughed  fields,  and  crossing 
the  river  Lika,  a  wide,  straight  road  brings  us  to  the  village 
of  Gospic  at  the  foot  of  the  snow-crowned  Velebit  Moun- 
tains. 

Evidently,  it  is  market-day,  for  the  way  is  lined  with 
picturesque  groups  of  peasants.  The  sleeveless  sheepskin 
coats,  striped  waistcoats,  and  red  caps  of  the  men,  the  bright 
yellow  kerchiefs  of  the  women,  make  dancing  spots  of  color 
amidst  the  sheep  and  cows,  the  donkeys  and  chickens,  —  to 
say  nothing  of  the  pigs,  each  one  of  which  has  to  be  cajoled 
into  believing  that  this  is  the  direction  he  wishes  to  take.  All 
this  forms  an  amusing  spectacle,  and  we  move  with  the  utmost 
care  to  enjoy  it  as  well  as  to  avoid  unpleasant  entanglements. 

At  half-past  one  we  arrive  at  the  door  of  the  Svratiste 

56 


ZENGG    TO    GOSPIC 

Lika,  the  hotel  in  Gospic.  We  have  made  only  fifty-four 
miles  in  five  hours;  but  considering  the  condition  of  the  roads, 
we  are  satisfied  —  and  also  very  hungry.  Yet  it  is  with  dif- 
ficulty that  I  sit  quietly  at  table  in  the  primitive  restaurant ; 
for  just  outside  the  low  windows  groups  of  gayly  dressed 
peasants,  men  and  women,  are  passing  and  repassing,  stop- 
ping to  chat  or  gossip,  and  slowly  strolling  down  the  long 
street.  From  the  onion-shaped  steeple  of  the  church  near 
by,  comes  a  hideous  din  as  of  pounding  on  copper,  and 
small  boys  in  the  street  swing  dull  wooden  rattles  vigorously. 

''Why  ?"  I  begin,  but  the  Leader  has  already  informed 
himself. 

"It  is  Holy  Thursday,  and  they  ar.  celebrating,"  he 
answers. 

After  luncheon  we  hold  a  council  of  war  as  to  whether 
we  would  better  rest  here  over  night  or  push  on  to  Zara. 

"How  far  is  it?"  asks  Madame  Content. 

"We  have  still  about  seventy-five  miles  to  go.  Of  course 
I  know  nothing  of  the  roads.  Unless  they  are  much  better 
than  we  have  had  this  morning,  we  shall  not  get  in  until 
very  late." 

"Is  there  any  place  to  stop  between  here  and  Zara?" 

"None  that  I  know  of,"  he  answers.  "Is  any  one  too 
tired  to  go  on?" 

We  all  protest  our  willingness.  The  Leader  has  all  the 
responsibility;  whatever  he  decides  is  best  we  will  do. 
The  hotel  is  not  inviting,  the  sky  looks  clearer,  the  promised 
country  lies  so  near.     We  conclude  to  go  on. 


57 


CHAPTER   V 

ENTERING   DALMATIA— GOSPIC   TO   ZARA 

**"LJOW  far  is  Dalmatia  from  here?"  queries  the  Enthu- 
siast, as  we  leave  Gospic  and  speed  down  the  fairly 
good  road  over  a  level  plain  beside  an  imposing  range  of 
snowy  mountains. 

"It  is  thirty  miles  to  the  frontier,"  replies  the  Leader,  "but 
we  must  first  climb  a  pass  over  four  thousand  feet  high." 

For  fifteen  kilometers  the  road  is  encumbered  with  the 
wagons  of  the  country  folk  returning  from  market.  It  is 
very  narrow,  and  the  horses  are  terrified  at  the  unwonted 
noise  of  our  approach,  for  no  railroads  have  accustomed  them 
to  steam  engines  or  other  mechanical  conveyances.  In  these 
countries  the  chauffeur  not  only  has  the  care  of  the  motor, 
but  of  every  horse  or  donkey  or  pair  of  oxen  along  the  way, 
and  his  vigorous  "Whoa!"  spoken  from  the  car,  seems  to 
have  a  wonderfully  calming  influence  upon  the  plunging 
steeds.  Does  the  mere  sound  of  the  human  voice  coming 
from  this  strange  machine  reassure  them?  Certainly  the 
syllables  must  be  new  to  them! 

Over  a  slight  rise  and  straight  away  across  a  plain,  — 
where  the  oxen  ploughing  in  the  field  stop,  terror-stricken  at 
our  flight,  —  we  come  to  a  cross-roads  whose  signs  have 
tumbled  down;  but  following  the  telegraph  poles  as  well 
as  the  indications  on  the  map,  we  keep  to  the  right  and 
sweep  over  a  hilltop  into  a  rolling  dale.  Before  us  rises  the 
snowy  peak  of  Vakanski  Vrh  (5843  feet);  below  the  white 

58 


ENTERING    DALMATIA 

expanse,  glistening,  ice-covered  trees  stand  in  serried  ranks, 
and  we  strain  our  eyes  to  see  whether  we  can  discover  any 
sign  of  road  or  horse  or  vehicle  within  that  silent  wilderness. 
Leaving  Vakanski  behind  us,  we  enter  a  region  of  blue 
mountains  veiled  in  dark,  low-lying  clouds;  "Sv.  Rok,"  we 
quit  the  highway  leading  to  Knin,  turn  to  the  right,  and 
in  four  minutes  are  reassured  by  the  first  sign  bearing  a 
Dalmatian  name:  "Obrovac36." 

Soon  we  begin  to  climb  in  earnest,  —  no  soft  rolling  over 
hilltops  with  a  gradual  rise  at  each  new  height,  but  a  long, 
steady  pull  up  the  mountain  side,  through  forests  of  budding 
beech-trees:  the  landscape  is  pink  with  them.  Patches  of 
snow  appear  by  the  roadside  and  increase  to  long  drifts; 
then  the  mountains  are  covered  with  thin  layers  growing 
ever  deeper.  Meanwhile  the  snow  in  the  road  increases  so 
as  to  somewhat  impede  our  progress,  but  banks  three  and 
four  feet  in  height  on  either  side  are  evidence  that  this  pass 
over  the  Velebit,  the  best  inland  communication  between 
Croatia  and  Dalmatia,  is  kept  open  all  winter. 

As  we  rise,  the  great  valley  of  the  Ricice  spreads  out  in 
wonderful  perspective  below  us;  lakes  and  tiny  threads  of 
rivers,  dotted  villages,  and  distant  hills,  until  the  whole 
horizon  is  bounded  by  range  after  range  of  lofty  mountains 
lost  in  clouds.  Up  the  steep  ascent  we  continue  to  climb, 
scattering  the  tiny  pebbles  in  our  path.  The  cleared  way 
is  so  narrow  that  we  shiver  at  the  mere  thought  of  meeting 
anything ;  but  when  the  emergency  arises  we  find  it  is  pos- 
sible to  pass, —  by  testing  each  inch  of  soft  snow  so  as  not 
to  go  over  the  edge ! 

59 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

When  the  poor,  overworked  engine,  clogged  with  the  mud 
of  the  valley,  gets  hot,  handfuls  of  snow  are  pushed  into  the 
steaming  radiator,  and  we  go  onward,  ever  upward.  Now 
we  are  in  the  clouds,  and  we  push  forward  cautiously,  sound- 
ing the  horn  at  frequent  intervals.  An  eagle  sails  out  of  the 
driving  mist  above  us,  and  a  hut  half  buried  in  the  snow  is 
seen.  It  is  the  government  station  of  Mali  Halan.  We  are 
still  in  Croatia,  but  the  top  of  the  pass  (3483  feet)  must  be 
close  at  hand.  Making  a  sharp  turn  through  jagged  cliffs,  we 
pass  a  frontier  post.     This  is  Dalmatia. 

As  if  in  sympathy  with  our  ardent  desires,  the  clouds  Hft, 
slowly  disclosing  a  world  of  crags  and  precipices;  a  gray 
world,  without  a  touch  of  green;  no  budding  beech-trees 
here, —  indeed,  no  trees  at  all,  nor  bush,  nor  spear  of  grass, 

—  naught  but  the  grandeur  of  towering  peaks  beneath  a 
threatening  sky.  Down  the  inclines  we  wind  and  twist,  the 
turns  are  broad  and  no  cassis  impede  our  flight,  and  the  snow 
soon  disappears  behind  us.     We  stop  to  lower  the  hood,  and 

—  "What  is  that  inscription  on  the  cliff?"  cries  the  Enthu- 
siast.    'T  can  see  it  is  not  Slavic." 

The  Leader  goes  over  to  investigate,  and  returns  with  the 
following  lines  in  his  note-book  and  a  touch  of  emotion  in 
his  voice : 

Alla  memoria   del    gendarm    Francisco   Fracasso    il 

QUALE  NEL  GIORNO  27  MaGGIO   1 85 1  IN  DIFESA  DELDA   PrO- 
PRIETA  CADE  COMBATTENDO  CONTRO  2  2  ASSASSINI. 

(To  the  memory  of  the  soldier  Francisco  Fracasso,  who  on 
the  twenty-seventh  of  May,  185 1,  whik  protecting  property, 
fell  fighting  against  22  assassins.) 

60 


ENTERING    DALMATIA 

What  a  picture  it  brings  to  us  here  in  this  desolate  spot! 
The  hopeless  struggle,  the  death  for  duty's  sake! 

As  we  continue  our  journey  the  mist  rises,  and  an  in- 
describably magnificent  panorama  is  revealed;  the  ribbon- 
like highway  clings  to  the  mountain  side, —  twelve  different 
levels  can  we  trace  before  it  takes  its  arrow-like  course 
across  the  plain,  —  that  plain  which  soon  resolves  itself  into 
a  series  of  terraces,  with  the  blue  lakes  of  Novigrad  and 
Karin  like  jewelled  bosses  on  its  pearly  breast. 

At  the  west  opens  the  Canale  della  Montagna.  The 
long  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  touch  the  small  white  villages 
of  Starigrad  and  Tribanje,  Nona,  the  Island  of  Pago;  and 
far  off  Lussin,  where  rises  Monte  Ossero  in  dream-like  out- 
line. The  faintly  glittering  sea  is  studded  with  tiny  reefs 
and  islands  of  varying  sizes,  extending  as  far  south  as 
Sebenico. 

At  the  southeast  rise  the  snowy  Svilaja  Mountains  beyond 
the  Krka  River,  and  still  farther  away  the  Dinarian  Alps 
upon  the  Bosnian  boundary.  The  great  northwestern  penin- 
sula of  Dalmatia  lies  unfolded  like  a  map  before  us, 
with  the  white  walls  of  Zara  seventy  kilometers  away.  Yes, 
Dalmatia  is  wonderful,  and  this  is  surely  the  best  way  to 
enter  it,  —  dropping  from  the  clouds,  as  it  were,  —  securing 
the  first  impressive  picture  in  its  length  and  breadth  before 
descending  to  inspect  it  bit  by  bit. 

Under  overhanging  precipices  and  over  deep  ravines  we 
slide  down  in  long  loops.  Suddenly  far  below  us  a  collection 
of  ant-like  objects  appears  upon  the  road.  At  nearer  view 
these  resolve  themselves  into  a  caravan  of  at  least  fifteen 

6i 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

wagons,  drawn  up  in  single  file  upon  the  outside  of  that 
mountain  highway,  where  no  parapet  protects  them  from 
falling  into  depths  some  hundred  feet  below!  Evidently  the 
men  are  on  their  way  up  the  pass,  and  on  account  of  the  grade 
and  heavy  loads,  have  no  fear  that  their  horses  will  run  far; 
but  they  take  all  possible  precautions,  blocking  each  wheel 
with  a  large  stone,  and  placing  themselves  at  their  horses' 
heads  to  await  our  onslaught.  Although  we  advance  very 
slowly,  with  engine  off,  at  sight  of  us  the  first  horses  instantly 
shy,  throwing  the  whole  line  into  confusion.  We  are  terror- 
stricken!  What  can  prevent  them  from  going  over  the  em- 
bankment ?  Why  have  they  not  at  least  taken  the  inside  of 
the  road  ?  But  the  teamsters  speak  soothingly  to  their  poor 
beasts,  with  an  apologetic  expression  toward  us. 

We  found  this  attitude  all  through  Dalmatia.  The 
peasants  seem  to  say:  "You  must  excuse  us  and  our  igno- 
rant animals.  We  know  we  are  behind  the  times,  but  we 
want  to  see  what  is  going  on  in  the  world.  We  welcome 
strangers  and  the  strange  new  carriages.  Do  not  be  angry 
with  us,  —  we  will  grow  accustomed,  in  time,  to  the  noise 
and  the  smell,  for  we  too  wish  to  be  civilized." 

Of  course  we  stop  at  once  and  the  chauffeur  goes  for- 
ward to  assist  in  untangling  broken  harnesses  and  in  calm- 
ing the  frightened  animals.  After  a  few  moments  they  seem 
to  appreciate  our  harmlessness  and  permit  us  to  glide  slowly 
by,  thankful  that  matters  are  no  worse. 

Across  the  high  plateau  lying  to  the  southwest  of  the 
Velebit  Mountains  we  merrily  speed,  —  where  only  the  small 
huts  of  the  shepherds,  dotted  here  and  there,  keep  us  com- 

62 


ENTERING    DALMATIA 

pany,  and  a  tiny  chapel  lifts  its  cross  by  the  wayside,  —  past 
the  hamlet  of  Mekdolac,  —  and  approach  Obrovazzo,  or 
Obrovac,  the  end  of  the  Velebit  Pass. 

This  great  piece  of  engineering,  connecting  Zara  with 
the  highway  between  Karlstadt  and  Knin,  was  constructed 
in  1829-32.  It  is  twenty-one  feet  wide,  with  nowhere  a 
grade  of  more  than  five  per  cent,  and  is  twenty-three  kilo- 
meters (fourteen  and  three-eighths  miles)  in  length  between 
Obrovac  and  the  Dalmatian  frontier  on  the  top  of  the  pass. 

It  is  possible  to  go  by  water  from  Obrovac  to  Zara,  by 
way  of  the  Zrmanja  River,  the  sea  of  Novigrad,  the  canal 
della  Montagna,  stopping  at  Pago,  and  on  through  land- 
locked channels.  This  is  a  delightful  sail  of  about  nine  and 
a  half  hours.  Obrovac  is  charmingly  situated  at  the  bottom 
of  a  narrow  ravine  through  which  flows  the  Zrmanja  River. 
The  small  steamer  lies  at  its  dock  below  the  ruined  castle  on 
the  hill  in  wonderful  green  water. 

Fruit-trees  are  in  bloom  and  the  air  is  soft  and  mild. 
The  inhabitants  rush  out  to  see  us  but  we  make  no  pause,  — 
the  hours  of  daylight  are  slipping  away.  From  the  quays 
they  watch  our  upward  flight,  as  we  climb  in  short  windings 
to  the  plateau  separating  this  shut-in  valley  from  the  Lake 
of  Karin.  The  red  sun  is  sinking  in  a  burst  of  glory  over  the 
waters  of  Novigrad ;  long  brilliant  rays  shoot  up  into  the  sky 
and  turn  to  rainbow  tints  the  rocks  and  sage-brush  of  the  roll- 
ing desert.  On  the  protected  slopes  around  Lake  Karin  both 
grain  and  grapes  are  growing,  —  a  welcome  change  from  the 
gray  landscape  we  have  passed  through.  Over  the  inlet 
connecting  the  two  lakes,  a  strong  bridge  is  in  course  of 

63 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

construction,  and  the  temporary  structure  looks  so  insecure 
that  we  slow  down  to  reconnoitre;  but  from  a  group 
of  picturesque  peasants  a  friendly  Franciscan  brother 
steps  forward  and  with  gestures  of  reassurance  beckons  us 
to  cross.  After  exchanging  salutations  with  the  kindly 
friar  we  ascend  a  last  steep  inchne  in  loops,  catching 
glimpses  of  the  monastery  in  its  sheltered  cove  beside  the 

lake. 

At  the  top,  to  our  surprise,  our  road,  —  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  see,  — lies  straight  and  smooth  and  empty!  Only  the 
heart  of  a  true  automobilist  can  appreciate  the  delicious  sen- 
sations which  such  a  sight  produces!  Without  a  word,  the 
chauffeur  bends  over  his  wheel,  each  one  of  us  snuggles  down 
into  his  or  her  heavy  wraps,  and  in  rapturous  flight  we  race 
with  the  gathering  dusk. 

Through  alternate  rock-bound  pastures  where  flocks  of 
sheep  are  watched  by  gayly  gowned  young  girls  —  some  of 
them  distaff  in  hand;  by  small  settlements  embowered  in 
fig  and  olive  trees;  past  a  Turkish  fortification  rising  from 
stony  meadows  where  flourish  low  juniper  bushes;  past 
Smilcic  and  Zemonico,  both  upper  and  lower,  we  hasten, 
for  the  Hght  is  growing  fainter  and  fainter. 

Hardly  do  we  perceive  the  mulberry  trees  bordering  the 
route  near  Babindub!  Scarcely  can  we  distinguish  the  sea 
as  we  approach  its  dark  expanse;  but  the  fights  of  a  fairy 
city  begin  to  gleam  in  the  distance.  Nearer  and  nearer  they 
come;  a  tiny  harbor,  mediaeval  :11s,  and  an  imposing  gate- 
way—the Porta  Terrafcrmc.  Through  this,  in  perfect 
confidence,  the  Leader  signals. 

64 


ENTERING    DALMATIA 

"Turn  to  the  left  two  blocks,  and  then  to  the  right"; 
and  we  stop  at  the  Hotel  Bristol,  Zara.  We  have  travelled 
only  one  hundred  and  twenty-nine  miles  to-day;  but  have 
crossed  two  mountain  passes,  one  of  2326  feet  and  the  other 
of  3483  feet,  starting  from  and  returning  to  the  sea. 


65 


CHAPTER  VI 

ZARA 

/^OOD  FRIDAY! 

A  never-to-be-forgotten  morning  at  Zara! 

As  I  throw  open  the  shutters  the  whole  exquisite  scene  is 
disclosed ;  the  soft  sky,  the  pearly  slopes  of  the  mountainous 
islands,  the  limpid  water,  the  fishing-smacks  at  anchor 
beyond  the  low  embankment.  Even  the  black-and-red 
steamer  approaching  the  pier  is  transformed  by  the  match- 
less Hght  into  an  object  of  beauty.  An  Austrian  officer  has 
kindly  loosened  his  blue  cape,  which  falls  in  graceful  folds 
as  he  strides  smartly  by.  A  Roman  priest,  in  black  cas- 
sock, red  sash,  and  broad-brimmed  hat,  eagerly  exchanges 
views  with  a  stolid  parishioner,  and  two  lovers  of  the  beauti- 
ful are  having  their  morning  coffee  on  the  terrace  below 
'*ew  plein  airy 

A  woman  in  a  blue  gown,  red  hose,  and  white  kerchief 
walks  slowly  by,  balancing  a  three-gallon  can  of  milk  on  her 
head ;  on  her  arm  she  carries  a  heavy  tin  pail,  thus  leaving 
her  hands  free  for  her  knitting.  A  fisherman's  boat  moves 
leisurely  along  with  limp  and  flapping  sail,  two  men  stand  at 
the  oars,  their  red  caps  nod  in  unison.  The  clumsy  black 
craft  passes  all  too  soon  but  here  is  another  one  painted  blue. 
The  white  shirts  of  the  oarsmen  gleam  in  the  sunshine  and 
their  constant  chatter  rises  faintly  to  my  upper  window.  This 
boat  is  laden  with  pine  branches  which  exhale  their  pungent 

66 


ZARA 

fragrance  in  the  placid  air.  Are  these  for  Easter  decorations, 
I  wonder?  Here  below  the  quay  which  has  replaced  the 
ancient  city  walls  the  water  is  so  deep  that  the  boats  pass 
close,  and  the  men  may  exchange  greetings  with  the  passer- 
by. When  the  discussion  becomes  especially  intense,  the 
boat  is  stopped  at  one  of  the  stone  pillars  along  the  way  and 
the  owner  comes  ashore  to  enforce  his  theories. 

Are  the  colors  really  more  gorgeous  in  themselves,  or  is 
it  only  the  atmospheric  effect  ?  That  golden  brown  of  the 
velveteen  on  the  lad  who  lounges  by!  That  rich  tan  of  the 
flying  sail  bound  for  the  opposite  isle!  A  faded  green  hull 
drifts  by  with  a  woman  leaning  on  a  long  oar.  Is  she  really 
helping  or  merely  making  an  exquisite  picture  in  her  snowy 
coif  and  dull  blue  gown  ?  In  another  boat  the  whole  family 
are  evidently  out  for  an  airing  as  a  kerchiefed  child  squats 
upon  the  covered  prow  and  a  baby  crows  from  his  mother's 
arms.  Flocks  of  terns,  those  graceful  swallows  of  the  sea, 
whirl  and  dart  over  the  rippling  waves.  How  restful  is  the 
stillness!  No  railroad  or  trolley  within  sixty  miles!  No 
steam  tugs  or  cranes  or  whistles!  The  ships  and  fishing- 
boats  move  noiselessly.  Even  the  occasional  steamer  slides 
with  bated  breath  through  the  waters  of  this  enchanted  sea. 
My  thoughts  follow  her  in  idle  reverie. 

"  Do  you  intend  to  spend  your  entire  day  gazing  out  that 
window?"  calls  a  mocking  voice  from  the  neighboring 
balcony. 

^'Oh,  no  indeed!  Of  course  not.  I  want  to  see  it 
all,  but  could  anything  be  more  fascinating  than  this  ? ' '  And 
my  hand  moves  vaguely  over  the  constantly  changing  scene. 

67 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

"Where  first?"  I  demand,  as  we  stroll  toward  the  pier. 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  the  cathedral  here  is  a  famous 
one,"  begins  the  Leader. 

*'\\Tiat  is  that  w^omen  carrying?"  I  interrupt.  "Can  it 
be  a  turkey?  And  do  look  at  her  full  short  skirts,  gay 
apron,  and  leggings!  Oh,  I  must  try  to  get  a  kodak  of 
her."  And  I  gaze  carefully  in  the  opposite  direction  as  the 
unconscious  poseuse  approaches. 

"Did  you  see  her  embroidered  kerchief?"  I  cry,  as  she 
passes.  "And  oh!  there  are  some  more  over  by  the  post- 
office." 

I  try  to  walk  sedately,  not  stare  too  intently,  and  yet  to 
grasp  in  all  its  details  this  gay  and  lively  scene.  For  this  is 
our  first  experience  with  the  barbaric  costumes  of  the  Mor- 
lacchi  and  no  background  could  be  more  effective  than  these 
gray  stones  and  stucco  walls  beneath  this  cloudless  sky  of 
Zara.  Descending  from  the  land  of  Rascia  in  the  fourteenth 
century  these  swarthy  Slavs  settled  in  the  interior  of  Istria 
and  along  the  canals  of  northern  Dalmatia.  The  name 
Morlacchi  is  derived  from  the  Slav  words  "Mauro  Vlach," 
meaning  "  black  Wallachs." 

The  market-place  is  resplendent  with  oranges  and  onions, 
lemons,  wild  asparagus,  and  chicory,  under  scarlet  awnings 
in  the  dazzling  sunshine.  Gayer  than  all  are  the  moving 
groups  of  picturesque  peasants.  Such  bravery  of  color! 
Such  gorgeous  raiment!  Such  charming  caps  and  kerchiefs! 
Such  bags  and  belts  and  baskets! 

For  be  it  known  that  each  island  of  the  Quarnero,  each 
village  on  the  mainland,  even  each  sect  in  that  village, 

68 


IX   THE    MARKET-PLArE 
THE   HASKETS   ARE    BEAL'TIFl'L   I\   ZARA 


IIIF.    RI\A    \i:CCIlIA,    ZARA 


ZARA 

whether  Greek  or  Roman,  has  its  own  pecuHar  dress.  The 
men  vie  with  the  women  in  splendor,  for  their  red  caps  and 
sashes,  blue  trousers  slit  at  the  ankle  to  disclose  the  embroid- 
ered leggings,  waistcoats  shining  with  silver  buttons,  and 
white  lamb's-wool  coats  thrown  over  the  shoulders  form  an 
attire  both  comfortable  and  becoming.  Most  of  the  men  and 
women  wear  the  opanka,  or  leather  sandal,  laced  and  curious- 
ly worked  with  string.  But  alas!  even  here  civilization  is 
about  to  encroach  upon  picturesqueness,  for  a  long  row  of 
baskets  filled  with  clumsily  made  low  shoes,  evidently  the 
very  latest  imported  fashion,  are  attracting  many  purchasers 
in  the  market-place. 

At  one  corner,  leaning  lightly  against  a  column,  stands  a 
beautiful  young  girl  with  the  air  of  a  Greek  goddess,  clasping 
in  her  hands  a  basket  of  snowy  eggs.  Should  any  one  choose 
to  buy,  well  and  good,  —  but  she  scorns  to  persuade. 

Not  far  away  a  worthy  dame  exposes  for  sale  her  stock  of 
olive  oil.  It  stands  beside  her  in  a  brightly  polished  kero- 
sene can  with  a  glass  carafe  full  of  it  as  a  sample.  She 
squats  comfortably  on  the  ground,  a  customer  approaching 
assumes  also  the  Japanese  posture,  sniffs  the  small  carafe 
and  tastes  its  contents.  There  is  much  discussion  as  to 
quality  and  price,  both  enjoying  thoroughly  the  good-natured 
banter.  After  some  minutes,  the  bargain  being  completed, 
the  purchaser  extracts  a  bottle  from  his  saddle  bags,  pours 
the  rich  oil  into  it,  and  saunters  on  in  search  of  other 
bargains. 

We  stroll  from  group  to  group.  There  is  no  monotony 
of  costume,   no   two   are   dressed   precisely  alike.     Some 

69 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

women  are  distinguished  by  a  short  jacket,  others  by  a  long 
sleeveless  coat,  others  by  a  fringed  native  shawl,  but  all  are 
decked  with  odd  barbaric  jewelry,  rings  and  beads,  brooches 
and  a  curious  medal  called  a  "Maria  Theresa."  This  is  a 
silver  five-kronen  piece  made  in  Dalmatia,  encircled  with  a 
fixed  style  of  filigree  and  the  whole  gilded. 

Suddenly,  in  the  distance,  appeared  two  attractive  figures, 
their  stiff  brocaded  aprons  glistening  in  the  sunlight,  their 
"Maria  Theresas"  carefully  displayed  beneath  their  knotted 
kerchiefs. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  them  to  pose  for  me,"  I  muttered. 

Before  a  remonstrance  could  stop  me  I  was  endeavoring 
by  gestures  to  explain  my  desires.  They  spoke  nothing  but 
Slavic.  For  such  an  unheard-of  request,  however,  the  ser- 
vices of  a  linguistic  policeman  were  necessary.  Just  outside 
the  Porta  Marina  we  found  an  accommodating  official,  who 
explained  our  meaning  in  loud  tones  to  the  bewildered  peas- 
ants and  in  an  equally  loud  voice  translated  into  Italian 
their  smihng  affirmatives.  If  I  could  only  have  photo- 
graphed the  group,  the  interested  onlookers,  the  ancient  lion 
of  St.  Mark  looking  down  from  the  city  gate !  But  the  light 
was  wrong  and  I  succeeded  in  getting  only  faint  reproductions 
of  these  comely  country  women. 

"The  cathedral,"  began  the  Leader  again,  and  we 
turned  a  corner  to  face  its  lovely  cream  jagade. 

"It  does  recall  the  Duomo  at  Pisa,"  I  granted,  "and  it  is 
charming.  The  arches  and  attached  columns  being  grad- 
uated give  just  enough  variety  and  play  of  light  and  shade." 

"The  two  rose  windows  are  later  work,  Jackson  says," 

70 


ZARA 

continued  the  Leader,  "but  as  a  whole  it  is  considered  the 
finest  fagade  in  Dalmatia." 

"How  beautiful  the  campanile  is!"  exclaimed  the 
Enthusiast. 

"Yes,  it  carries  out  exactly  the  style  of  the  period,  al- 
though it  did  not  receive  its  two  crowning  stories  until  with- 
in the  last  few  years.  They  are  from  designs  by  the 
distinguished  EngHsh  architect,  Mr.  Jackson." 

The  Dalmatians  are  a  deeply  rehgious  people.  No 
chimes  were  heard  that  whole  long  day,  no  clocks  struck,  or 
bells  of  any  kind.  The  flags  on  the  club-house,  the  post- 
office,  and  all  the  government  buildings,  as  well  as  on  the 
passing  steamers,  were  at  half  mast.  For  was  it  not  Good 
Friday  ? 

Not  only  the  cathedral  was  crowded  with  worshippers, 
but  also  San  Simeone,  where  we  joined  the  admiring  throng 
who  mounted  the  narrow  stairway  behind  the  shrine.  The 
body  of  the  saint  who  held  the  infant  Christ  at  the  Presenta- 
tion lies  here,  enclosed  in  a  magnificent  silver  Area  pre- 
sented by  the  unfortunate  Queen  EHzabeth  of  Hungary  in 
1377.  This  is  not  only  a  splendid  specimen  of  goldsmith's 
art  but  also  interesting  for  the  scenes  from  contemporary 
history  depicted  upon  its  carved  panels.  Formerly  it  "was 
supported  on  four  angels  of  silver.  These  were  melted 
down  at  the  time  of  the  war  between  Venice  and  Cyprus, 
and  have  been  replaced  by  two  of  stone  and  two  of  bronze 
made  from  cannon  taken  from  the  Turks  and  given  to  Zara 
by  Venice  in  1647."     (F.  H.  Jackson.) 

At  San  Francesco,  after  examining  the  Gothic  choir  stalls 

71 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

which  have  been  called  "among  the  finest  in  Dalmatia," 
we  went  into  the  sacristy  where  hung  a  beautiful  old  picture 
in  an  elaborate  blue  and  gold  Gothic  frame.  This  was 
something  for  which  we  were  not  prepared. 

"Who  painted  it?"  we  demanded  of  the  young  Francis- 
can. 

*T  do  not  know,"  he  answered.  "It  came  from  Ugljan, 
was  sent  to  Vienna  for  restoration,  and  has  been  here  only 
five  or  six  years.'' 

"It  is  certainly  fifteenth  century,"  murmured  the  Leader. 

"Perhaps,"  indifferently  replied  the  youthful  friar,  and 
endeavored  to  lead  us  on  to  other  treasures  in  the  usual 
round.  But  it  is  not  every  day  that  one  discovers  a  new 
painting  by  an  old  master,  and  we  stood  in  thoughtful  con- 
templation before  the  sweet-faced  Madonna  with  the  Christ 
child  on  her  knees.  On  either  side  of  her  were  St.  Peter 
Martyr,  St.  Ambrogio,  St.  Francis,  St.  Jerome  and  a  tur- 
baned  saint,  while  above  and  below  were  medallion  heads  of 
other  saints  all  on  a  glowing  gilt  background. 

"Have  n't  you  a  photograph  of  it  ?"  asked  the  Enthusiast. 

"No,  it  has  never  been  taken,"  asserted  the  monk,  more 
and  more  astonished  at  our  enthusiasm.  "Yes,  it  is  indeed 
a  beautiful  picture."  And  he  looked  at  it  curiously,  as  if  he 
saw  it  for  the  first  time. 

Wandering  through  the  narrow  streets  of  this  mediaeval 
city  we  came  upon  a  gracefully  curving  apse  and  stopped  to 
admire  its  arcaded  gallery. 

"It   must   be   San   Grisogono,"   hazarded   the   Leader. 

Before  the  entrance  little  children  in  groups  of  twos  and 

72 


ZARA 

threes,  the  older  ones  leading  tinier  tots  by  the  hand,  kept 
lifting  the  heavy  curtain  to  pass  in  and  out. 

**San  Grisogono  is  the  patron  saint  of  Zara,''  read  the 
Leader;  "his  body  was  brought  here  from  Aquileia  in  649. 
The  interior  of  the  church  has  been  modernized." 

"Why  is  it  that  only  children  are  visiting  this  church?" 
asked  the  eager  Inquirer.     "Can't  we  go  in  a  minute?" 

The  interior  was  dark  and  still.  At  the  farther  end  the 
altar  was  illuminated  with  small  cups  of  oil  on  which  floated 
lighted  wicks  screened  by  texts  illuminated  on  vellum,  simple 
texts  that  the  children  could  understand.  On  the  pavement 
beneath  the  altar,  pots  of  creamy  grasses,  each  glowing  with  a 
mysteriously  hidden  light,  outlined  a  great  white  cross.  How 
chaste  and  sane  a  symbol  for  this  holy  day!  What  a  con- 
trast to  the  agonizing  figure  which,  in  varying  degrees  of 
realistic  detail,  is  usually  exposed  for  the  adoration  of  the 
faithful! 

Zara,  or  Zadar,  the  Roman  Jadar,  the  capital  of  Dal- 
matia,  is  an  attractive  city,  built  upon  a  long  peninsula  and 
surrounded  still  on  all  sides  except  the  sea  front,  by  its  six- 
teenth century  fortifications.  To  be  sure,  some  of  these 
have  been  modified.  Above  the  Porta  Marina  a  shady 
promenade  has  been  planted,  where,  on  that  sunny  morning 
in  the  springtime,  the  elm-trees  were  heavy  with  blossom. 
Leaning  over  the  parapet,  we  traced  the  narrow  entrance  to 
the  port,  where,  in  days  of  old,  chains  stretched  from  shore 
to  shore  kept  out  the  enemies'  fleet.  In  this  small,  quiet 
harbor  the  Romans  and  Dalmatians,  or  descendants  of  the 
earlier  Illyrians,  the  Franks  and  Byzantines,  the  Venetians 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

and  Croatians,  the  Hungarians,  Bosnians,  and  Turks,  the 
French,  and  finally  the  Austrians  have  each  in  turn  fought 
for  supremacy. 

How  peacefully  the  yachts  and  steamers  lie  now  upon  the 
quiet  waters!  With  what  security  ships  from  far  and  near 
cast  their  anchors  here  and  greet  the  swarming  small  boats 
that  come  to  give  or  take  the  cargo!  Fishing-smacks  from 
the  Croatian  coast,  Chioggia,  Lesina  and  many  neighboring 
islands,  are  moored  at  the  quay.  Their  brilliant  sails  are 
utilized  for  awnings  and  on  the  shaded  decks  lounge  vari- 
colored groups.  Back  and  forth  through  the  Porta  Marina, 
the  fisher  folk  pursue  their  occupations,  while  we  look  down 
in  keen  enjoyment  upon  the  shifting  scene. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  Riva  Vecchia,  a  broad  street  is 
being  opened  through  the  old  walls  which  will  doubtless  add 
to  the  material  prosperity  of  the  city.  The  foundations  of 
a  magnificent  Roman  triumphal  arch  have  thus  been  un- 
earthed for  the  second  time,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  some 
way  may  be  found  to  preserve  them  in  their  present  situation. 

Before  the  Giardino  PubbHco,  planted  on  an  ancient 
bastion,  is  an  open  square  containing  five  pozzi,  or  wells,  all 
communicating  with  one  vast  cistern,  where  the  water, 
after  being  elaborately  filtered  and  purified,  is  free  to  the 
citizens  of  Zara.  As  we  linger  in  the  shade  of  a  neighbor- 
ing guard  house,  a  sturdy,  short-skirted  damsel  comes 
swiftly  across  the  hot  flagged  square,  and  resting  her  wooden 
tub  upon  the  curb,  fills  it  from  the  cool  well.  I  cannot  but 
feel  that  I  am  looking  on  at  a  bit  of  stage  life.  The  setting  is 
perfect,  —  except  for  her,  the  place  is  deserted.     We  stand 

74 


ZARA 

motionless  as  she  lifts  the  brimming  vessel  to  her  head  and 
moves  off  steadily  down  the  long  shadowy  street. 

"I  am  sure  it  is  time  for  luncheon,"  suddenly  exclaims 
Madame  Content,  and  we  return  to  the  hotel  to  test  the 
variety  of  sea-food  exposed  on  tempting  trays  in  the  big 
restaurant.  Fresh  from  the  water,  they  are  brought  in 
glistening  and  palpitating,  the  dentale,  the  branzino,  and 
many  others  whose  names  I  never  learned.  Delicious  were 
they,  and  well  cooked.  In  fact,  all  the  food  was  excellent, 
but  the  proprietors  had  a  strange  aversion  to  fresh  air.  The 
double  windows  were  not  only  nailed  down,  but  it  seemed 
as  though  every  chink  was  stuffed  with  cotton.  The  doors 
were  carefully  kept  closed,  and  smoking  was  permitted,  nay, 
encouraged,  at  all  hours  of  the  day  or  night.  However,  we 
were  far  more  comfortable  than  we  had  expected  to  be  in 
Dalmatia.  Our  own  rooms  were  fairly  clean  and  the  pil- 
lows were  of  feathers.  There  was  a  bath-room,  too,  in  the 
hotel,  where  a  hot  bath  could  be  obtained  on  giving  notice 
of  an  hour  and  a  half!  To  be  sure  there  was  no  lift  and  our 
rooms  were  in  the  third  story;  but  every  one  knows  that 
going  up  and  down  stairs  is  one  of  the  best  forms  of  exercise. 
However,  what  compensated  us  for  these  lesser  inconven- 
iences was  the  possession  of  a  tiny  balcony  facing  the  sea  and 
the  western  sky.  The  bare  limestone  crags  of  Ugljan  were 
just  far  enough  away  to  catch  and  give  back  the  full  radiance 
of  the  morning  sun.  And  at  evening  what  glorious  cloud 
effects  were  reflected  in  the  shimmering  water! 

But  Saturday  it  rained.  To  be  sure  the  tiny  row-boat 
tied  to  the  buoy  all  the  day  before  had  plenty  of  companions 

75 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

in  this  propitious  weather.  A  trahaccoli  glided  gently 
over  the  oily  water  with  one  orange  sail  and  one  of  browner 
hue.  Slowly  they  filled  with  the  mild  south  wind  and  disap- 
peared toward  the  village  of  S.  Euphemia.  Through  the 
mist  loomed  the  distant  fortress  of  S.  Michele,  crowning  the 
heights  of  Ugljan. 

"We  haven't  seen  the  Museum  yet,"  suggested  the 
Leader. 

It  proved  to  be  well  worth  a  visit.  Agreeably  displayed 
in  the  round  ninth  century  church  of  San  Donato,  —  in 
itself  a  treasure  to  the  archaeologist ,  —  were  Roman  frag- 
ments and  jewels,  Greek  vases  and  other  antiquities  from 
Aquileia,  a  collection  of  coins  and  inscriptions,  Lombard 
and  mediaeval  reliefs,  historical  objects,  and  bits  of  archi- 
tectural decoration.  The  woman  in  charge  permitted  us  to 
wander  about  and  examine  at  our  leisure  whatever  attracted 
us.  No  other  visitors  distracted  her  attention.  She  an- 
swered our  questions  intelligently  and  bade  us  God-speed 
when  we  departed,  quite  as  if  in  her  own  domain. 

It  has  been  said,  that  in  Dalmatia  a  stranger  will  find 
much  to  surprise  and  perplex  him.  "He  will  wonder  at  the 
extremes  of  civilization  he  encounters,  ranging  from  high 
culture  to  something  lower  than  semi-barbarism;  and  above 
all,  he  will  be  perplexed  by  the  existence,  unaccountable  to 
those  who  have  not  studied  Dalmatian  history,  of  the  two 
elements  in  the  population,  —  Latin  and  Slavonic,  —  which 
for  twelve  centuries  have  lived  on,  side  by  side,  without  los- 
ing their  difference."  (Jackson.)  In  the  shops  the  people 
speak  Italian;    the  signs,  too,  are  in  that  language.      // 

76 


ZARA 

Piccolo  delta  Sera  arrives  daily  from  Trieste  and  //  Dal- 
mate  is  published  twice  a  week  in  Zara. 

This  is  the  only  Italian  municipality  in  Dalmatia  and 
here  arc  the  only  Italian  schools.  Forty  years  ago  Italian 
was  used  generally  in  the  schools  throughout  the  country, 
then  for  a  short  time  German  was  introduced,  but  now  that 
branch  of  the  Slavic  tongue  called  Servian-Croatian  is, 
according  to  recent  authorities,  "universal."  Instead  of 
using  that  cumbersome  compound  I  have  followed  the 
example  of  modern  writers  and  designated  the  language  of 
these  Slavs  as  Slavic. 

Just  south  of  Zara,  on  the  coast,  is  the  small  Albanian 
village  of  Borgo  Erizzo  which  has  an  interesting  history.  In 
1726,  when  Vincenzo  Zmajevich  was  made  archbishop  of 
Zara,  he  brought  with  him  from  Perasto,  his  native  town, 
twenty-seven  families  of  x\lbanians  who  shortly  before  this, 
fleeing  from  the  atrocities  of  Mehmed  Begovich,  pasha  of 
Albania,  had  sought  his  protection.  Count  Erizzo,  who  then 
commanded  the  fortress  of  Zara,  assigned  them  land  near 
by.  Being  sober  and  industrious  they  prospered  and  in- 
creased until  now  they  number  about  three  thousand 
souls.  The  women  work  in  the  factories  until  they  marry, 
after  which  they  remain  at  home.  The  men  own  vineyards 
and  fields  within  a  radius  of  seven  or  eight  miles. 

We  took  a  very  personal  interest  in  the  Hungarian  Lloyd 
steamer  which  arrived  at  half -past  five  that  afternoon,  bring- 
ing the  Paris  mail.  It  was  a  pretty  boat,  white  with  a  red 
band  about  the  black  funnel  and  a  white  star  on  the  red. 
Many  port-holes  and  a  roomy  deck  indicated  its  concession 

77 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

to  the  passenger  service.  The  crowd  that  welcomed  it 
formed  a  moving  mass  of  black  umbrellas,  for  the  rain  was 
steady  if  light.  At  six  the  steamer  started  once  more  upon 
her  way,  but  it  took  two  long  hours  to  distribute  and  deliver 
that  precious  mail. 

In  the  Piazza  dei  Signori  is  the  Biblioteca  Paravia,  the 
gift  of  a  benevolent  citizen  of  Zara.  This  occupies  the 
ancient  court  of  justice,  a  fifteenth  century  loggia.  The 
street  connecting  this  piazza  with  the  Duomo  is  the  fashion- 
able promenade  and  on  that  Easter  Sunday  afternoon  it  was 
filled  with  a  throng  of  well-dressed  persons.  But  one  might 
have  been  in  Rome  or  Glasgow,  in  Boston  or  in  Munich,  so 
far  as  any  local  color  was  concerned. 

''How  monotonous  a  world  entirely  civihzed  would  be!" 
exclaimed  the  Enthusiast  in  a  disappointed  tone.  "  Let 's  go 
over  to  the  Porta  Marina."  So  we  wandered  back  to  the 
shady  walk  on  the  old  city  walls  above  the  little  harbor. 
Alas!  Not  a  fishing-boat  remained  beside  the  Riva  Vecchia! 
Gone  were  the  craft  from  Chioggia,  from  Croatia,  from 
Arbe  and  her  sister  islands!  Deserted  was  the  market- 
place and  empty  the  Fossa!  Back  to  their  own  villages  had 
returned  the  Morlacchi  and  all  the  picturesque  country  folk! 
What  a  different  impression  Zara  would  have  left  upon  us 
had  we  missed  that  brilliant  market-scene  on  the  morning  of 
Good  Friday! 


78 


CHAPTER  VII 
SCARDONA— FALLS   OF   KRKA— SEBENTCO 

'T^HE  morning  that  we  leave  Zara  for  Sebenico  is  cloudy, 
with  brief  spatters  of  sunshine.  As  the  coast  road  goes 
only  as  far  as  Pakoscane,  we  turn  away  from  the  Adriatic 
and  journey  inland  through  avenues  of  chestnuts,  almonds 
already  green,  elms,  and  cherry-trees  heavy  with  blossoms. 
In  this  pebbly  soil,  olives,  vines,  and  vegetables  flourish 
astonishingly.  Walls  of  green  brambles  border  an  excellent 
road.  Plantations  of  pine  alternate  with  sheep  pastures 
and  fields  of  grain.  Farther  on,  the  hawthorn  hedges 
are  in  flower  and  beside  them  bloom  large  pink  anemones 
and  asphodel.  Looking  back  from  the  top  of  a  hill  we 
have  a  beautiful  view  of  Zara,  lying  lightly  on  the  sea  like  an 
outpost  of  Venice. 

At  Zemonico  are  the  ruins  of  a  cavalry  station  fortified 
by  the  Venetians  against  the  Turks.  Here  in  1346  Ladislas 
of  Hungary  encamped  with  100,000  men,  ostensibly  to 
assist  the  Zaratines  who  were  besieged  by  the  Venetians, 
but  like  the  King  of  France  in  the  nursery  rhyme,  who 

"Wenl  up  the  hill 
With  twenty  thousand  men; 
The  King  of  France  came  down  the  hill, 
And  ne'er  went  up  again." 

So  Ladislas  appears  to  have  done  nothing  on  either  side, 
and  after  a  few  weeks   he   took  his  army   back  to  his 

79 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

own  country  again.  The  plain  has  a  peaceful  appearance 
at  present,  and  nothing  more  inimical  than  barking  dogs 
pursues  us  as  we  speed  through  the  village.  We  are 
afraid  of  running  over  them,  and  the  Gentle  Lady  is 
obliged  to  threaten  so  vigorously  with  her  whip  that  she 
drops  it. 

'*0h,  wait!  I  've  lost  my  whip,"  she  cries,  but  we  are 
half  a  mile  away  before  we  stop.  As  we  start  back,  a 
friendly  lad  comes  running  toward  us,  bearing  our  precious 
weapon,  and  he  refuses  to  accept  anything  for  his  services 
but  our  hearty  thanks. 

So  far,  we  had  retraversed  the  highway  which  brought 
us  to  Zara;  but  just  beyond  Zemonico  we  turned  south,  and 
after  four  kilometers  more  the  road  lay  straight  before  us  the 
entire  distance  to  Biljane.  According  to  tradition,  on  this 
plain  of  Grobnica  the  Tartars  met  defeat  in  the  thirteenth 
century.  It  is  a  pleasant  country  with  green  willows, 
more  fields  of  grain,  many  vines  and  olives,  even  fig-trees 
in  sheltered  nooks. 

Peculiar  to  these  limestone  regions  are  shallow  lakes 
formed  by  the  winter  rains.  In  the  spring  the  water  gradu- 
ally recedes,  leaving  a  rich  soil  in  which  the  crops  are  planted, 
so  that  by  midsummer  the  whole  is  a  waving  mass  of  green. 
One  of  these,  known  as  the  Lake  of  Nadin,  now  appeared  in 
the  distance,  but  gradually  the  Karst  reasserted  itself  and  the 
small  shepherdess  in  her  lamb's- wool  coat  and  crimson  cap 
became  once  more  a  feature  in  the  landscape. 

Biljane  is  a  hamlet  of  half  a  dozen  houses,  with  perhaps 
as  many  more  scattered  through  the  fields.    Here  our  course 

80 


SCARDONA-^SEBENICO 

turned  to  the  southeast,  sharply  dividing  the  rich  valley  on 
the  left  from  the  rocky  waste  on  the  other  side.  The  way  was 
stony  but  we  met  no  vehicle  and  hence  could  stay  in  the 
smooth  wheel  tracks.  Clusters  of  low  houses  guarded 
the  crops  on  the  southern  slopes.  It  seemed  curious  that  the 
road  should  pursue  the  even  tenor  of  its  way  without  regard 
to  them,  but  it  was  probably  built  for  military  purposes  and 
took  the  shortest  route  between  two  points. 

At  Benkovac  the  Karin,  Novigrad,  and  Vrana  highway 
crossed  our  own  route.  Here  a  dismantled  castle  had  a 
certain  charm  of  age  and  our  Leader  strove  to  interest 
us  in  it.  But  our  attention  could  not  be  distracted  from 
the  gorgeously  dressed  populace,  who  gathered  in  fright- 
ened groups  about  the  doorways  and  peered  eagerly  at  us 
from  well-guarded  corners,  for  this  was  Easter  Monday 
and  we  had  arrived  just  as  service  was  over  in  the  little 
church. 

'*Oh,  do  go  slowly,"  we  begged  from  the  back  seat;  so 
we  loitered  on  the  long  ascent  until  we  had  scanned  each 
picturesque  peasant  to  our  heart's  content. 

"In  these  marshes,"  said  the  Leader,  pointing  toward 
Vrana,  *'  many  ancient  stone  pipes  have  been  discovered. 
They  are  believed  to  have  been  part  of  an  aqueduct  which 
Trajan  built  for  the  Roman  colony  at  Zara.  For  similar 
pipes  have  been  found  on  the  shore  near  Borgo  Erizzo  and 
Zara  Vecchia  and  in  the  ruins  on  top  of  the  hill  Kastelj, 
above  the  Lake  of  Vrana.  Here  near  Biba  was  a  spring 
which  probably  supplied  part  of  the  water." 

Near  the  thirty-ninth  kilometer  post  we  spied  a  stately 


MOTORING    IN  THE    BALKANS 

chateau  or  fortress  on  a  summit  at  our  right.  Instinctively 
I  reached  for  Baedeker  and  sighed  as  I  remembered  how 
inadequate  he  is  in  the  interior  of  Dalmatia. 

''It  must  be  the  castle  of  Perusic,"  explained  the  Leader. 
''I  don't  think  we  can  see  from  here  the  famous  ruins  of 
Asseria,  although  they  must  be  near.  It  was  one  of  the 
important  cities  of  Liburnia,  Pliny  says." 

"The  Castle  of  Perusic,  a  most  imposing  pile  of  mediaeval 
fortification  which  is  often  mentioned  in  the  warfare  of 
Turks  and  Venetians  during  the  sixteenth  century,  and  is, 
I  believe,  still  partially  habitable.  It  seemed  to  consist  of  a 
square  enclosure  with  curtain  walls  and  towers,  and  a  huge 
castellated  building  within."     (Jackson,  1885.) 

Beside  a  wayside  fountain,  a  woman  stood  in  unconscious 
grace,  twirling  her  spindle  rapidly.  A  magpie  disturbed 
by  our  clatter  flew  slowly  before  us.  The  dusty  diligence 
from  Benkovac  to  Knin  passed  us;  and  suddenly  we  re- 
alized that  the  Karst  had  been  driven  back  to  the  hill- 
tops, and  once  more  ploughed  fields,  fruit-trees,  and  flower- 
ing elms  surrounded  us.  The  tiny  Morpolaca  River  on  our 
right  flows  into  the  shallow  lake  of  Prokljan,  and  as  we 
begin  the  ascent,  following  the  northeast  boundary  of  the 
marsh,  Mt.  Ostrovica  rises  on  our  left. 

Here  our  further  progress  is  apparently  blocked  by  a 
curious  buttress  of  rock,  but  as  we  slow  down  in  momentary 
hesitation,  a  carriage  ( !)  appears  from  behind  it.  This  ancient 
landau,  brown  and  rusty,  is  not  only  filled  to  overflowing 
with  crimson-capped  countrymen,  but  bears  upon  its  top  a 
load  of  "knobby  "  articles,  presumably  potatoes,  guarded  by 

82 


SCARDONA-SEBENICO 

a  vociferous  small  dog.  The  horses  are  too  weary  to  be 
frightened  and  pass  us  without  lifting  an  ear. 

We  continue  to  travel  over  foot-hills,  amidst  herds  of 
grazing  cattle,  sheep,  and  goats.  The  women  courtesy  from 
the  doorways  of  their  huts  and  the  men  doff  their  caps  as  we 
rumble  through  the  gray  village  of  Zavic.  Just  beyond  a 
pine  grove  we  perceive  the  ruins  of  Bribir  on  an  eminence  in 
the  distance.  At  the  Ponte  de  Bribir  the  road  to  the  left 
goes  on  to  Knin,  that  to  the  right  to  Scardona,  which  is  our 
goal.  In  the  Middle  Ages  this  was  an  important  corner, 
but  now  there  is  nothing  here  but  a  tumble-down  inn  where 
two  or  three  peasants  are  lounging. 

Was  not  this  Province  the  ancestral  home  of  the  famous 
Stephen,  Count  of  Bribir,  who  in  1247  was  created  Ban  of 
Slavonia  and  Dalmatia?  His  successors  were  virtually 
rulers  of  the  country,  under  various  titles,  during  the  follow- 
ing hundred  years.  Indeed,  by  1308,  when  Charles  Robert 
became  King  of  Hungary,  the  then  Count  of  Bribir,  Paul,  was 
not  only  Ban  of  Croatia  but  "succeeded  in  getting  himself 
elected  Count  of  the  maritime  towns  of  Traii,  Spalato,  and 
Sebenico."  I  suppose  that  means  he  was  allowed  the  privi- 
lege of  protecting  them  with  his  soldiers  from  any  other  foe. 
Zara  alone  still  swore  allegiance  to  Venice;  but  it  also  was 
persuaded,  after  three  years,  to  throw  off  that  yoke,  and  to 
elect  Paul's  son  Mladin  to  govern  it.  Mladin  is  a  fascinat- 
ing hero;  indeed,  the  history  of  these  Counts  of  Bribir  would 
form  by  itself  a  volume  well  worth  reading. 

Looking  back  from  the  modern  village  of  Bribir,  we 
enjoyed  a  splendid  panorama  of  the  hills  and  vales  we 

83 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

had  traversed.  The  road  improved.  Near  Krcma  —  these 
fantastic  and  extraordinary  combinations  of  consonants 
deHght  me !  —  we  met  two  wagons  loaded  with  hogsheads 
of  wine.  The  drivers  were  resting  within  the  inn  and 
we  dared  not  try  to  pass  without  notifying  them.  At  the 
sound  of  our  horn  they  rushed  pell-mell  from  the  house, 
shrieking  directions  at  us  and  jerking  their  horses'  heads, 
quite  beside  themselves  with  fear;  but  the  horses  took  all 
this  commotion  very  quietly.  For  five  kilometers  more  we 
rode  through  alternate  lands  of  plenty  and  barren  waste, 
then  crossed  a  small  river  and  entered  Scardona,  stopping 
before  a  building  where  a  sign  read  "Restaurant  Buljan." 

We  within  the  tonneau  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay. 
We  were  hungry,  too  —  but  here?  It  seemed  to  us  ex- 
tremely doubtful  whether  we  could  possibly  find  anything 
eatable  here.  But  it  was  past  twelve  o'clock.  The  Leader 
had  already  dismounted  and  had  disappeared  through  the 
dark  doorway.  A  crowd,  mostly  men  in  fine  old  costumes, 
gathered  about  us.  Polite  but  curious,  they  discoursed 
together  in  a  tongue  beyond  our  comprehension.  Suppose 
at  the  inn,  too,  they  spoke  nothing  but  Slavic  ?  We  began 
to  be  more  and  more  concerned  as  we  waited  for  our  chieftain. 
But  when  he  did  return,  with  smiling  reassurance  he  ex- 
plained that  he  had  been  ordering  our  luncheon  in  a  mixture 
of  German  and  Italian,  that  the  place  was  n't  at  all  bad  and 
he  thought  that  we  might  be  very  comfortable. 

''Where  can  I  put  the  motor?"  he  asked,  by  signs  as 
much  as  by  spoken  word. 

"Why,  here."     And  willing  hands  opened  a  shed  door  in 

84 


A   TVnCAL   COSTUME 
(scardona) 


A    BRILIJAVr    CROWn,    srARDfjXA 
THI-:    FKRRV    ACROSS     llll';    KRKA 


SCARDONA-SEBENICO 

the  wall,  hastily  moving  out  an  ox-cart  to  make  room  for  our 
cumbrous  car.  The  chauffeur  carefully  measured  the  open- 
ing so  that  there  might  be  no  possibility  of  accident,  and 
amid  the  awed  admiration  of  the  populace  he  backed  the 
motor  into  its  temporary  home. 

We,  meanwhile,  had  stumbled  up  the  dim  but  spotless 
stairway  and  found  a  neat  room  for  our  wraps  and  a  quiet 
corner  for  our  mid-day  meal.  The  dishes  were  peculiar 
but  palatable,  especially  the  soup  and  a  dessert  called 
Dolce  Grj 

But  I  could  not  keep  away  from  the  queer,  box-like, 
double  windows,  beneath  which  the  red-capped  natives 
sauntered  up  and  down,  the  light  reflecting  from  their  silver 
buttons  and  giving  more  color  to  their  gay  sheepskin  coats 
and  silken  sashes.  I  finally  mustered  up  courage  to  ask  one 
of  these  splendid  creatures  to  pose  for  me.  How  kindly  and 
courteous  they  were !  Although  we  must  have  been  equally 
objects  of  curiosity  to  them,  no  crowd  followed  us  as  we 
wandered  through  the  limited  streets  of  the  tiny  town,  but 
if  we  needed  advice  or  assistance  they  were  eager  to  be 
of  use. 

It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  Scardona  was  once  an 
important  city,  that  she  shared  with  Salona  and  Narona  the 
honors  of  capital.  To  be  sure,  that  was  in  the  days  of 
maritime  IlljTicum  about  A.  D.  9.  The  Avars  first  swept 
down  upon  her,  and  after  639  she  seems  to  have  been  thrown 
back  and  forth  between  the  Latins  and  the  Slavs  for  centuries. 
She  was  rebuilt  only  to  be  sacked  and  burned  again,  until 
it  is  not  surprising  that  nothing  now  remains  of  her  former 

85 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

greatness.  Pillaged  by  our  grewsome  friends,  the  Uscocs,  in 
1607,  she  revived,  only  to  be  condemned  to  final  destruction 
by  Napoleon  in  1809.  But  there  must  be  something  very 
tenacious  about  the  inhabitants  of  this  small  town.  She 
purchased  her  safety  by  the  payment  of  an  enormous  fine 
and  has  already  developed  a  profitable  silk  industry.  Surely, 
some  day,  she  will  be  able  to  utilize  the  enormous  water 
power  which  the  Klrka  represents,  and  so  become  again  an 
important  commercial  centre. 

We  had  heard  that  there  was  a  ferry  here  on  which  we 
could  cross  the  Krka  River,  but  whether  or  not  it  would  carry 
the  automobile  was  the  question.  In  four  minutes  from  the 
Restaurant  Buljan  we  had  arrived  at  the  broad  bed  of  the 
stream  and  were  inspecting  the  flat  barge  with  its  protecting 
sides  which  lay  at  the  quay.  It  looked  very  small,  but 
cautiously  we  ran  up  on  it,  and  to  my  surprise,  at  least,  it  did 
not  perceptibly  sink.  A  shepherd  draped  in  his  brown 
kahanica  came  aboard,  and  three  men  of  varying  aspects 
bent,  standing,  to  the  oars.  Slowly  the  boat  swept  out  upon 
the  wide  river.  The  sensation  was  not  an  altogether  pleas- 
ing one  to  the  feminine  portion  of  the  party.  A  rope,  or 
chain,  stretched  across  from  shore  to  shore,  would  have 
inspired  us  with  confidence,  but  no  such  guidance  was  at 
hand,  and  the  creaking  craft  seemed  to  make  small  headway 
against  the  strong  current.  The  Leader,  perhaps  to  divert 
our  minds  from  the  swirling  water,  called  our  attention  to 
the  fact  that  although  Scardona  lay  just  behind  the  pine- 
dotted  cliffs  it  was  invisible.  The  boatmen  were  so  inter- 
ested in  my  kodak  that  at  times  they  almost  forgot  to  row. 

86 


SCARDONA  — SEBENICO 

Why  is  it  that,  the  world  over,  at  sight  of  a  camera  the 
whole  body  involuntarily  stiffens? 

Although  it  seemed  much  longer  it  was  only  fifteen 
minutes  from  the  time  we  stopped  to  enter  the  ferry  before 
we  had  started  up  the  other  bank  of  the  Krka.  Ascending 
the  steep  incline  we  were  surprised,  at  a  bend  in  the  road, 
by  a  charming  view  of  Scardona  and  Lake  Prokljan.  For 
miles  and  miles,  on  either  side  of  this  highway  to  Sebenico, 
the  government  has  planted  double  rows  of  young  trees  on 
this  otherwise  barren  tableland.  It  is  a  wise  provision  for 
the  future  and  the  road  is  a  joy  to  the  motorist. 

We,  however,  wish  to  see  the  famous  falls  of  the  Krka,  so 
turn  to  our  left  at  the  first  opportunity  and  follow  a  rough 
and  narrow  route  to  the  north.  Suddenly  the  flat  tableland 
yawns  apart,  and  far  down  in  the  canyon  appears  a  rushing 
stream!  The  road  drops  down  in  four  long  winding  loops 
until  we  are  on  a  level  with  the  river  above  the  falls.  We 
leave  the  car  and  walk  on  to  various  viewpoints  below  the 
roaring  waters.  How  beautiful  it  is!  The  banks  are 
thickly  planted  with  Lombardy  poplars  and  groves  of  a 
shrub  which  looks  like  sumac  or  ailanthus  and  whose  twigs 
are  covered  with  bursting  red  buds. 

"In  fifty  years  the  river  has  not  been  so  high,"  we  are 
told. 

It  is  amazing  how  the  small  islands  of  trees  and  grasses 
withstand  that  tumbling,  crashing  torrent.  From  its  source 
in  the  Dinarian  Alps  near  Knin  to  the  sea-level  at  Sebenico 
the  Krka  descends  in  alternating  level  pools  and  high  cas- 
cades; this  is  the  eighth  and  last  one  and  has  been  thus 

87 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

described    by   Mr.   Jackson    in   his  well-known    book  on 
Dalmatia: 

''The  falls  are  on  a  really  magnificent  scale,  reaching  in 
various  interrupted  cascades  all  across  the  valley.  The 
damp  mist  they  throw  up  has  encouraged  a  luxuriant 
vegetation,  and  the  whole  is  embosomed  in  rich  copses, 
through  which  there  peeps  in  every  direction  the  silver  of 
numerous  smaller  cascades  leaping  down  to  join  the  main 
stream  below.  The  river  does  not  pour  over  the  ledge  in 
one  unbroken  sheet,  as  at  Niagara,  but  in  several  independent 
cascades  of  various  widths,  the  largest  of  which  cannot  be 
much  less  than  200  or  250  feet  across.  The  total  height  of 
the  falls,  which  are  broken  into  several  steps  divided  by 
stretches  of  glassy  rapids,  is  said  to  be  170  feet.  The  upper 
fall  is  magnificent,  formed  by  two  streams  falling  together 
at  an  angle  and  uniting  as  they  fall,  but  the  lowest  fall  is 
perhaps  the  finest  of  all,  thundering  down  into  a  great  basin 
and  throwing  up  clouds  of  spray,  in  which  we  saw  a  rainbow." 

Our  own  blue-backed  swallows  were  circling  in  lovely 

curves  above  the  swirling  waters  as  we  left  the  bed  of  the 

rock-girt  stream  and  mounted  once  more  to  the  tableland. 

It  is  only  a  ten-minute  run  from  the  corner  where  we  regain 

the  highway  to  the  hotel  at  Sebenico,  for  the  road  is  excellent. 

Passing  a  modern  fortification,  we  get  a  charming  view  of  the 

broad  Krka  where  it  merges  into  the  sea,  the  islands  beyond, 

and  Sebenico  crowned  by  its  mediaeval  castles.     Down  a 

long,  straight,  stone-paved  street  we  go,  turn  sharply  to  the 

right  beside  the  Public  Garden,  cross  the  Marina,  and  stop 

at  the  Hotel  de  la  Ville. 

88 


SCARDONA  — SEBENICO 

No  one  appeared  in  answer  to  our  persistent  tooting,  so 
the  Leader  entered  the  deserted  doorway  to  reconnoitre. 
It  was  the  hour  of  the  siesta  —  how  could  one  expect  a 
guest?  The  sleepy  porter  was  finally  aroused  and  per- 
suaded to  take  our  bags  up  to  some  rooms  facing  the  sea. 
Could  we  have  some  drinking  water?  He  would  inquire. 
Soon  after,  I  heard  the  faintest  murmur  at  my  door  and  the 
fat  landlady  stole  softly  in  without  knocking,  carrying  a 
bottle  of  mineral  water  nearly  as  round  as  herself.  ''Prego^^ 
she  said,  and  the  handle  of  the  door  came  off  in  her  hand  as 
the  wind  slammed  it.  Nothing  daunted,  she  went  for  tools 
and  was  soon  back,  bearing  wire  and  a  cutter  with  which  she 
deftly  fastened  it  on  again. 

The  landlord,  the  chef,  the  porter,  even  the  chambermaid, 
assisted  at  the  important  function  of  ordering  our  dinner. 
The  market-place  was  before  the  door  and  fresh  peas  looked 
very  tempting.     The  rest  we  left  to  their  discretion. 

It  was  only  a  little  past  four,  none  of  us  were  tired,  so 
we  went  out  to  get  an  impression  of  the  town.  How  abso- 
lutely different  is  this  port  of  Sebenico  from  the  one  at  Zara! 
Neither  could  anything  be  more  diverse  than  the  appearance 
of  the  two  cities.  The  fiat  peninsula  of  Zara,  with  its 
encircling  walls  and  towering  campanile,  only  serves  as  a 
charming  contrast  to  this  terraced  town  mounting  the  hill- 
side, with  its  domed  cathedral  and  dominating  forts.  In 
the  large  land-locked  harbor  a  training  ship  was  anchored, 
and  through  the  tortuous  channel  sailed  grimly  a  man-of-war. 
Near  the  pier  lay  a  half-submerged  steamer  which  had  gone 
down  the  week  before.     Already  the  wreckers  were  at  work 

89 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

raising  her.  An  enterprising  photographer  with  a  studio 
overlooking  the  scene  had  taken  advantage  of  his  location 
to  secure  good  pictures  at  different  stages  of  the  disaster. 
This  was  a  bit  of  Western  enterprise  most  surprising  in  this 
Eastern  land. 

The  pictures,  as  well  as  the  ship  itself,  were  surrounded 
by  an  interested  crowd  of  country  folk.  The  costumes  of 
the  women  were  more  sombre  here,  although  the  red  streak 
below  the  coarse  brown  serge  petticoat  and  the  orange  ker- 
chief, topping  the  loose  brown  sleeveless  sack,  gave  a  touch 
of  color,  which  added  to  the  effect  of  the  full  white  sleeves 
and  bodice.  The  red  caps  of  the  men  were  smaller  than 
any  we  had  yet  seen.  The  seams  of  their  brown  jackets 
were  corded  with  magenta  and  the  front  covered  with  many 
rows  of  crinkly  magenta  fringe.  These  coats  opened  over 
double-breasted  embroidered  vests  set  with  filigree  silver 
buttons. 

In  the  Public  Garden  is  a  statue  erected  to  Nicolo  Tom- 
maseo,  who  died  in  1874,  aged  72  years. 

'T  wonder  who  he  was!"  murmured  the  Enthusiast. 
Slowly  and  impressively  the  list  of  this  celebrated  man's 
attainments  was  read  aloud,  thereby  causing  the  Enthusiast 
to  blush  for  her  ignorance.  —  "A  philologist,  philosopher, 
historian,  poet,  novelist,  critic,  psychologist,  statist,  poli- 
tician, and  orator.  He  left  nearly  two  hundred  works." 
Surely  his  fellow-countrymen  appreciated  him  and  gladly 
honored  him  in  this  his  native  place. 

Up  flights  of  steps  from  the  quay  we  toiled,  catching  a 
glimpse  of  the  apse  above  a  band  of  curiously  carved  heads 

90 


I\     VHE    MARKEP-I'LACE,    SEBEXICO 


THK    ROWS    OF    HEADS   OX    THE    CATHEDRAL   APSE 

THE    I'LEASA.\T-LOf)KI\(;    LION'S    Af     THE    CAIHEDRAL 
DOOR,   SEBEXICf ) 


SCARDONA  — SEBENICO 

before  we  reached  the  picturesque  piazza  where  the  cathe- 
dral stands.  These  sculptured  heads  are  extremely  inter- 
esting, as  they  depict  the  different  types  of  the  period,  princes, 
scholars,  courtiers,  and  peasants,  both  Slavic  and  Italian. 
Across  the  square  extends  the  open  loggia  of  a  casino,  and 
from  either  side  wind  up  more  stone-paved  paths,  which 
disappear  under  archways  leading  to  houses  on  steep  ter- 
races above.  A  Venetian  window  or  door-frame  at  odd  cor- 
ners gives  one  a  thrill  of  reminiscent  joy,  and  looking  down 
from  the  farther  end  of  the  square,  once  more  we  see  the 
Krka,  broadening  as  it  nears  the  sea. 

A  pelting  rain  sent  us  home  again,  —  "home"  being 
wherever  our  bags  happened  to  be  unpacked.  By  the  dim 
light  of  a  single  electric  bulb  I  looked  about  my  large  apart- 
ment. Evidently  it  had  been  the  parlor  of  the  hotel,  for  the 
red  velvet  curtains  and  grand  piano  imparted  an  air  of  ele- 
gance to  the  simple  bed  and  washstand.  Later  on  I  made  a 
further  discovery.  Beneath  the  fiimsily  constructed  floor 
was  the  restaurant,  and  the  day  being  a  holiday  the  merry- 
makers were  driven  by  the  rain  from  the  terrace,  where 
usually  they  sang  their  songs  of  joy,  to  take  refuge  in  that 
warm  and  comfortable  spot.  Ringing  voices,  not  too  well 
in  tune,  came  to  my  drowsy  ears,  with  the  clink  of  heavy 
mugs  and  an  undertone  of  lively  conversation.  This 
gradually  diminished  as  the  "wee  sma'  hours"  drew 
nigh,  until  finally  only  one  reveller  was  left,  and  as  revel- 
ling all  alone  is  wearisome  work,  even  he  subsided  and 
quiet  reigned. 

The  next  morning  it  was  still  raining  and  we  thought 

91 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

dubiously  of  the  roads.  The  market  in  the  square  before 
our  windows,  however,  opened  in  good  season,  the  tenders 
of  the  booths,  mostly  women,  standing  just  within  the  drip- 
ping awnings.  I  cannot  say  that  trade  was  brisk,  but  every 
now  and  then  a  customer  with  yawning  basket  would  appear 
and  would  bargain  with  as  much  deliberation  as  if  clothing 
were  impervious  to  slanting  showers. 

"Shall  we  go  on  to-day,  in  spite  of  mud  and  water?" 

"Why  not  wait  until  the  afternoon?"  —  and  I  quoted 
my  favorite  maxim:  "Rain  before  seven,  clear  before 
eleven." 

In  this  case  I  was  justified,  for  by  ten  o'clock  the  rain 
had  stopped  and  we  sallied  forth  for  new  experiences.  Now 
we  appreciated  the  stone-paved  stairways,  for  the  rain  had 
washed  them  clean  and  by  proceeding  slowly,  we  managed 
to  climb  to  the  cemetery  just  beneath  the  ancieat  fort  of 
San  Giovanni.  We  stopped  to  take  breath  at  its  locked 
gate  and  a  dozen  dancing  little  demons  in  rags  surrounded 
us,  begging  for  coins. 

"The  key?" 

Two  dirty  youngsters  darted  down  the  steep  incline 
after  the  custode,  returning  in  an  incredibly  short  time 
with  outstretched  hands.  But  no!  The  key  must  be 
forthcoming  first,  which  fact  they  accepted  philosophically 
and  returned  to  their  gambling  for  pennies.  It  was  some 
time  before  the  healthy  figure  of  a  young  woman  came  labor- 
iously up  the  hill  carrying  an  iron  key  over  a  foot  long. 

"■Eccol "  cried  the  small  band  of  robbers,  thrusting  forth 

their  dirty  palms. 

92 


SCARDONA-SEBENICO 

''Patience!  We  must  get  some  change  first!"  said  the 
Leader. 

"Very  well."  They  could  wait,  their  game  was  inter- 
esting. The  custode  carefully  locked  the  gate  behind  her 
as  we  entered  the  cemetery,  and  went  up  to  the  foot  of  the 
old  fortifications.  Here  we  obtained  a  magnificent  view 
over  the  city  and  the  splendid  harbor  with  its  surrounding 
heights.  It  was  a  restful  place,  the  lilacs  —  our  first  lilacs  — 
were  sweet  with  blossoms  and  primroses  starred  the  grassy 
banks. 

"I  wonder  what  Sebenico  means,"  idly  ventured  the 
Enthusiast.     "Was  it  a  Roman  colony,  too,  like  Zara?" 

"No,"  answered  the  Leader,  half-reading,  half-relating. 
"Sebenico  is  not  of  Roman  origin,  but  is  first  spoken  of  as 
a  Croatian  town.  According  to  traditions,  some  brigands 
built  a  fort  here,  overlooking  the  sea,  and  surrounded  it 
with  a  palisade,  or  Sibue,  hence  the  name  Sibenik  in  Slavic, 
or  Sebenico  in  Italian.  It  did  not  become  important  until 
after  1127,  when  the  Croatian  city  of  Belgrad  (Zara  Vecchia) 
being  destroyed  by  the  Venetians,  the  inhabitants  took 
refuge  here,  and  in  1298  it  was  made  a  bishopric.  Gradually 
it  became  Latinized  and  although  it  suffered  from  various 
sieges  and  changes  of  masters,  *  in  the  sixteenth  century  the 
arts  and  sciences  flourished  in  this  city  more  than  in  any  other 
in  Dalmatia.'    In  this  period  the  cathedral  was  built  —  " 

"Oh!  I  should  like  to  see  the  cathedral  again,"  ex- 
claimed the  Enthusiast. 

So  duly  rewarding  the  waiting  gamins,  we  descended 
the  countless  steps  and  once  more  looked  upon  the  creamy 

93 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

walls  of  the  Duomo,  lingered  before  its  splendid  Gothic 
portals,  admiring  especially  the  two  pleasant-looking  lions 
which  guard  the  northern  entrance.  The  barrel  roof  is 
constructed  entirely  of  stone,  which  forms  the  inner  ceiling 
as  well.  The  dome,  alsOjis  of  stone.  Indeed,  neither  timber  nor 
brick  are  used  in  any  part  of  this  noble  building.  Within, 
time  has  mellowed  to  an  ivory  tint  the  marble  choir  seats, 
the  ancient  walls  and  railings  supporting  tiny  lions  in  various 
postures,  and  lent  deeper  shadows  to  the  richly  foliated 
band  which,  at  the  ceiling,  encircles  the  church.  But  the 
famed  baptistery,  elaborate  as  it  is  and  rich  with  much 
exquisite  detail,  leaves  one  with  a  sense  of  confusion  and 
disappointment ! 

We  emerged  to  find  the  sun  shining  brightly,  the  clouds 
rolled  away,  and  a  wind  which  promised  to  dry  the  country 
roads.     Could  motorists  ask  for  more  ? 


94 


CHAPTER   VIII 
SEBENICO   VIA    TRAU    TO    SPALATO 

npHERE  is  a  railroad  from  Sebenico  to  Spalato  and  up 
to  Knin,  'Svith  two  trains  daily,"  we  were  proudly 
informed;  "making  the  entire  distance  of  fifty-six  and  one- 
half  miles  in  three  and  one-half  hours!"  But  the  highway 
to  Spalato  goes  via  Zitnic,  an  extremely  roundabout  route. 
Is  there  no  other  way?  Oh,  yes,  there  is  a  road;  but  it  is 
little  used,  going  over  the  Boraja  direct  to  Trail  and  thence 
to  Spalato.  Is  it  possible  to  motor  that  way  ?  Well,  opin- 
ions differed  as  to  that,  some  asserting  it  was  all  right 
and  others  assuring  us  that  it  was  bad;  but  neither  side 
could  give  us  any  details.  After  thinking  it  over  we  con- 
cluded to  try  the  shorter  route,  following  the  railroad  until 
beyond  Vrpolje.  The  road-bed  is  firm  and  dry.  By  the 
wayside  blooms  the  ever-present  genista,  with  asphodels  and 
pink  anemones;  fruit  and  fig  trees  are  bursting  into  leaf. 

''Oh,  do  see  that  mass  of  yellow  by  the  railroad  track!" 
says  the  Enthusiast.  "It  is  a  new  flower!  Can't  we  get 
some?" 

"Probably  we  shall  see  it  again,"  comforts  the  Leader, 
as  we  speed  onward;  for  fields  and  ditches  and  fences 
separate  us  from  those  coveted  blossoms.  Curiously  enough, 
however,  we  do  not  see  them  again  during  the  w^hole 
day,  although  we  look  industriously  for  them.  Later,  on 
returning  from  the  source  of  the  Jadro,  we  find  quantities 

95 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

of  them  in  a  marshy  spot  amidst  thorns  and  brambles. 
Some  of  these  we  gather  and  send  to  a  wise  man  across  the 
ocean,  in  order  to  learn  their  name  and  habit. 

But  to  return  to  our  Spalato  route.  It  proves  of  the  same 
type  as  on  the  other  side  of  Sebenico,  desolate  gray  hills  with 
occasional  patches  of  green  grain.  At  an  angle  in  the  road 
a  church  with  many  sheds  confronts  us,  but  no  houses  or 
people  are  in  sight ;  not  a  wheel-track  can  be  discerned  on 
the  whole  well-graded  highway.  Sometimes  low-growing 
coarse  grass  gives  a  touch  of  color  to  the  roadbed.  We 
cross  a  substantial  five-arched  stone  bridge  over  the  now 
nearly  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  stream;  and,  leaving  the 
railroad,  enter  a  canyon  where  sage-brush  and  shaggy  goats 
alone  accompany  us. 

Ascending  very  gradually  by  this  forsaken  government 
road,  we  come  suddenly  upon  an  oasis  of  almonds  and  figs, 
olives,  cherries,  and  vines.  How  beautiful  it  is!  No  human 
habitation  can  we  see,  —  yet  some  one  must  have  planted 
them  here  in  the  midst  of  these  boulder-covered  fields. 
Leaving  this  garden  spot  we  are  once  more  traversing  the 
hilltops,  up  and  down,  in  apparently  aimless  wandering; 
the  road,  no  longer  good,  is  covered  with  sharp  bits  of  rock, 
at  sight  of  which  the  motorist  shivers. 

Suddenly  the  car  stops  —  and  a  sound  of  running  water 
under  the  machine  strikes  consternation  to  our  hearts. 
What  is  that?  In  an  instant  both  men  are  out.  It  is  the 
radiator!  Can  it  be  cracked  ?  That  would  be  a  catastrophe 
indeed!  There  follow  moments  of  tragic  suspense  when 
each  imagination  travels  far;  for  if  this  be  true  it  means  at 

96 


SEBENICO    TO    SPALATO 

least  a  week  of  waiting.  And  where  ?  Will  we  have  to  camp 
by  the  wayside  or  sleep  in  the  automobile  ?  Already  I  can 
fancy  hordes  of  ravening  wolves,  —  of  course,  they  would  be 
ravening,  —  or  possibly  a  bear  creeping  down  those  rocky 
heights  and  across  the  desolate  fields!  But  the  Leader 
laughs  at  our  forebodings;  there  are  no  bears  in  Dal- 
matia,  nor  wolves,  nor  wild  animals  of  any  kind  except 
coyotes;  the  fact  that  we  have  seen  no  village  since  leaving 
Vrpolje,  miles  back,  would  indicate  that  we  must  soon  come 
to  one;  oxen  could  draw  the  car  there  by  taking  time,  and 
the  priest  or  school  teacher  or  mayor  of  the  town  would 
take  us  in  while  the  chauffeur  went  to  Trieste,  or  possibly 
further,  for  the  needed  parts. 

Meanwhile,  an  examination  is  being  made.  "  It  is  only 
the  rubber  connection  which  is  broken,"  the  chauffeur  finally 
announces,  "  and  I  can  fix  it  all  right.  I  '11  wind  it  with 
adhesive  tape.  That  will  last  until  we  reach  Spalato  and 
we  can  get  a  new  piece  of  rubber  there." 

Sighs  of  relief  are  exchanged  by  the  sitters  in  the  rear 
seat. 

''But  we  cannot  run  without  water,  and  there  is  not  a 
drop  left  in  the  radiator,"  continues  he. 

At  this,  our  eyes  search  the  wide  horizon;  as  before,  there 
is  not  a  house  in  sight.  We  have  not  met  one  solitary  per- 
son the  whole  distance  from  Sebenico,  —  either  driving  or 
riding  or  walking!  The  chauffeur  is  rapidly  completing 
his  repairs,  —  still  no  sign  of  help;  stir  from  the  spot  we 
cannot ! 

''Of  course  there  must  be  some  one  within  a  mile  or  two 

97 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

who  cultivates  these  stony  pastures  so  carefully  enclosed, 
but  this  may  not  be  his  day  to  visit  them,"  remarks  the 
Leader. 

Is  it  in  answer  to  our  united  longing  that  in  the  dis- 
tance at  last  appears  a  shambling  lad  ?  He  ambles  up  to  the 
machine  in  curious  contemplation,  but  the  Leader  imme- 
diately extracts  the  canvas  pail  from  under  the  seat  and  points 
to  its  emptiness,  looking  in  all  directions  and  shaking  his 
head.  This  language  is  universal.  With  eager  gesture  the 
Slavonic  youth  points  to  the  mountains;  and,  as  we  pre- 
sent him  with  the  pail,  he  stretches  his  arms  to  their  utmost 
extent  to  signify  the  distance;  but  is  finally  persuaded  to 
the  task.  We  watch  him  running  swiftly  down  the  road, 
leaping  wall  after  wall  in  his  flight  across  the  fields,  until 
he  disappears  in  a  hollow  where  trees  denote  the  presence  of 
the  precious  well. 

The  birds  sing  blithely,  the  afternoon  is  young,  the  chauf- 
fer is  getting  on  successfully,  and  we  wait  for  the  reappear- 
ance of  our  Heaven-sent  help.  If  he  runs,  coming  back, 
there  will  be  little  water  in  the  pail  by  the  time  it  reaches  us; 
also,  unless  he  knows  enough  to  soak  the  canvas  thoroughly 
first,  the  contents  will  soon  leak  out;  but  our  forebodings 
are,  as  usual,  utterly  unnecessary.  From  afar  we  watch 
him  cautiously  climbing  the  stone  walls,  deliberately  walk- 
ing up  the  long  road,  and  our  enthusiastic  reception  of 
him  and  his  brimming  pail  seems  to  surprise  as  well  as 
please  him. 

Of  course,  a  small  pailful  of  water  does  not  fill  the 
radiator;  but  by  some  mysterious  process  of  mind-reading, 

98 


SEBENICO    TO    SPALATO 

the  Leader  manages  to  learn  that  only  a  kilometer  or  so 
beyond  there  is  a  wayside  well  with  plenty  of  water  in  it, 
and  we  prepare  to  go  on. 

Noticing  how  wistfully  he  eyes  the  car,  the  Leader 
motions  the  lad  to  sit  down  at  his  feet  in  it  and  cautions  the 
chauffeur  to  run  slowly,  so  as  not  to  frighten  him.  We  do 
run  slowly;  but,  whether  from  fright  or  because  this  is  his 
stopping-place,  suddenly  the  boy  steps  off  as  he  would  from 
his  ox-cart!  We  scream  as  he  rolls  on  the  rough  road, 
luckily  away  from  the  machine;  but  by  the  time  we  have 
stopped  and  backed  up  to  him  he  has  risen,  rubbing  his 
bruised  elbows  and  protesting  that  he  is  not  hurt,  though  he 
looks  a  trifle  pale,  and  we  feel  the  need  of  language  to  ex- 
press our  sympathy.  Evidently  when  too  late,  he  under- 
stands his  miscalculation  and  bears  us  no  ill  will,  and  in 
five  minutes  we  are  stopping  at  the  wayside  well  in  an  oasis 
at  the  foot  of  an  embryonic  village. 

Out  from  every  doorway,  down  the  steep  hill,  pour 
the  entire  population,  men,  women,  and  children!  Such  a 
brilliant  procession!  Different  costumes  from  any  we  have 
yet  seen!  It  is  bewildering!  And  with  what  keen  apprecia- 
tion these  people  enjoy  the  species  of  circus  chariot  brought 
to  their  own  doors.  A  gorgeously  gowned  young  woman, 
evidently  a  bride,  does  not  stop  to  drop  the  big  cloak  she 
is  mending,  but  follows  down  the  hill  to  see  the  wonderful 
sight.  The  others  take  a  lively  interest  when  my  kodak  is 
brought  forth  and  assist  me  in  posing  her.  Silver  coins 
almost  cover  the  front  of  her  sleeveless  jacket  and  her  white 
kerchief  is  spotlessly  clean.     She  is  almost  as  attractive  as 

99 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

the  unconscious  shepherd  with  his  kid  tucked  under  his 
arm. 

''I  never  can  get  used  to  those  silly  pancake-like  caps  on 
these  broad-shouldered  men!"  murmured  Madame  Content. 
"Do  you  see  that  one  has  an  elastic,  at  the  back,  to  keep 
his  on!" 

After  this  pleasant  interlude  we  bowl  over  sterile  hills 
with  higher  mountains  rising  on  either  side,  the  road  con- 
stantly improving.  A  few  scattered  shepherds  watching 
their  flocks  are  our  only  companions  until,  at  the  end  of  a 
long  straight  road,  we  reach  a  precipitous  cliff  and  stop  in 
keen  delight.  Far  below  us  lies  the  sea-girt  city  of  Trau, 
with  its  mediaeval  walls  and  towers  rising  picturesquely 
from  the  water;  and,  beyond,  the  cloud-flecked  peaks 
of  the  Dinarian  Alps.  Two  miniature  ships  approach 
a  fairy-like  port,  —  it  is  Seghetto,  with  its  steepled  church 
and  clustered  houses.  The  islands  of  Solta,  of  Brazza,  and 
even  of  Lesina,  are  gradually  disclosed  as  we  slip  down  in 
long  loops  through  pine  nurseries  and  fields  of  fragrant 
lentils.  The  descent  is  not  always  smooth;  but  the  views 
are  so  splendid  and  varied  that  any  discomfort  of  that  kind 
is  soon  forgotten. 

Crossing  ''the  silver  streak  of  sea  that  saved  the  city 
from  the  Tartar  hordes,"  we  stop  before  the  Porta  di  Terra 
Firma  and  dismount  to  see  the  city  of  Trail,  or  Trogir. 
From  the  masonry  of  this  gate  a  cypress  bush  has  sprung, 
which,  according  to  local  superstition,  miraculously  flour- 
ishes to  hide  the  sculptured  lion  of  St.  Mark,  that  hated 
symbol  of  Venetian  domination.    Bits  of  Italian  architecture 


lOO 


^11 


S?T 


<X 


■■-* 


THK    SroNV    ROAD     !( )    TRAU 
SUCH     II NY    CAPS! 


•JUE    LiriLK    KIL) 


SEBENICO    TO    SPALATO 

greet  us  from  neighboring  walls  and  dark,  mysterious 
corners;  a  charming  balcony,  still  well  preserved;  a  group 
of  quaint,  arched  windows;  a  well-curb  in  a  tiny  square;  — 
as  we  wander  through  the  deserted,  dusky,  narrow  streets. 

It  is  but  a  short  distance,  really,  to  the  centre  of  the 
city,  —  the  Piazza  dei  Signori,  —  where  rises  the  splendid 
cathedral,  the  loggia  or  open-air  Court  of  Justice,  the  clock- 
tower,  and  the  Palazzo  Communale,  all  of  the  fourteenth 
century.  It  is  a  wonderfully  interesting  spot.  The  grace- 
ful campanile  above  the  Galilee  porch  of  the  great  church 
calls  us  with  irresistible  force,  and  we  enter  the  round,  arched 
doorway  and  stand  transfixed  with  admiration  before  *'the 
sumptuous  western  portal  of  the  nave,  —  the  glory  not  of 
Trati  only,  but  of  the  whole  Province,  a  work  which  in 
simplicity  of  conception,  combined  with  richness  of  detail 
and  marvellous  finish  of  execution,  has  never  been  surpassed 
in  Romanesque  or  Gothic  art."  (Jackson.)  Erected  in 
1240,  its  naive  bas-reliefs  give  us  many  pictures  of  the  life 
and  costumes  of  that  period;  the  huge  lions  guarding  the 
entrance  still  preserve  their  original  charm!  *'No  nobler 
or  more  impressive  beast  was  ever  conventionalized  by 
mediaeval  fancy." 

As  we  enter  the  cathedral  our  eyes  are  lifted  uncon- 
sciously to  the  lofty  ceiling  above  the  gray  walls  lighted  but 
dimly  by  the  narrow  windows  and  "great  western  rose." 
At  the  farther  end  rises  the  elaborate  haldachino  over  the 
altar  with  the  octagonal  pulpit  and  beautiful  fifteenth  cen- 
tury choir  stalls  before  it. 

What  endless  ingenuity  of  design,  what  careful  and  dcli- 

lOI 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

cate  execution,  what  playful  fancy  went  towards  the  for- 
mation of  the  stalls  in  the  mediaeval  cathedrals!  Not  only 
is  each  church  individual,  but  almost  each  sculptured  seat, 
and  a  study  of  these  curious  carvings  alone  would  fill  a 
bulky  volume.  One  is  constantly  surprised  in  Dalmatia, 
—  which,  some  way,  seems  to  belong  to  an  Oriental  civili- 
zation, —  to  find  these  Italian  edifices  often  created  by 
native  architects,  who,  having  absorbed  the  art  of  their 
Italian  neighbors,  developed  an  amazing  skill. 

Across  the  square  from  the  Duomo  stands  the  loggia, 
so  recently  restored  that  its  bright  new  roof  of  tile  presents 
a  somewhat  incongruous  aspect  in  contrast  with  the  ancient 
rail  and  columns.  The  stone  table  of  the  judges  is  still  in 
its  original  position  on  a  dais  at  the  east  end,  and  the  omni- 
present lion  of  St.  Mark  in  high  relief  looks  down  from  the 
wall  behind  it.  Beyond  the  quaint  clock  tower  is  the  Pa- 
lazzo Communale,  also  happily  restored  and  containing  in 
its  cortile  a  delightful  out-door  stairway,  reminding  one  of 
the  Bargello  in  Florence.  Through  the  dark,  somewhat 
dirty  streets  we  stroll  to  the  bridge  leading  over  to  Bua, 
where  we  have  a  view  of  the  striking  Castel  Camerlengo. 

This  island  of  Bua,  Bavo,  or  Boa,  in  Slavic  Ciovo,  is 
almost  ten  kilometers  long,  and  protects  the  entrance  to  the 
ancient  port  of  Salona.  It  was  used  by  the  Romans  as  a 
place  of  exile.  Later,  one  of  the  ancestors  of  the  historian 
Lucius  endowed  a  Franciscan  monastery  here.  In  1432 
the  city  of  Trau  built  a  refuge  for  the  Benedictines,  which 
became  a  favorite  place  of  pilgrimage,  but  now  this  shrine 
is  in  a  ruinous  condition  and  shelters  but  two  monks. 

102 


SEBENICO    TO    SPALATO 

There  is  always  a  feast  of  color  and  movement  along 
the  quays  of  these  island  cities  and  we  are  loath  to  leave, 
but  Spalato  must  be  reached  before  nightfall,  and  soon  we 
are  on  the  wing  again,  amidst  flowering  snowballs,  century 
plants  in  blossom,  and  all  the  luxuriance  of  a  Mediterranean 
vegetation.  Mignonette  grows  wild  along  the  way  under 
the  apple-trees  that  are  bouquets  of  perfumed  bloom.  The 
road  is  excellent,  built  by  the  French,  but  following  the  old 
Roman  road  running  close  to  the  sea,  at  first,  then  back 
among  vineyards  and  orchards  through  the  Riviera  of  the 
Sette  Castelli.  This  district  takes  its  name  from  seven 
castles  built  as  a  protection  against  the  Turks  in  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries.  These  castles  and  the  villages 
which  grew  up  about  them  are  called:  Castel  Papali  or 
Nehaj,  Castelnuovo,  Castel  Vecchio,  Castel  Vitturi  or 
Luksic,  Castel  Cambio  or  Kambelovac,  Castel  Abbadessa 
or  Gomilica,  Sucurac  and  Castel. 

Other  Castelli  there  are  along  the  shore  in  varying  stages 
of  picturesque  decay,  each  with  its  tiny  village,  contiguous 
fields,  and  quaint  traditions  —  Stafileo,  Andreis,  Cega,  Quar- 
co,  and  Dragazzo.  Castel  Vecchio  is  the  oldest,  founded  in 
1476  by  Cariolanus  Cippico  with  booty  gained  in  the  war 
against  Mahomet  II.  Castel  Abbadessa  was  erected  by  nuns 
and  here  the  abbesses  used  to  spend  their  summers.  Castel 
Sucurac  is  a  corruption  of  Sut  Juraj,  the  Croation  for  S. 
Giorgio.  ''  The  most  ancient  Croat  document  existing  is  a 
deed  of  gift  of  this  place  and  church  to  the  archbishop  of 
Spalato,  Pietro  III.,  by  the  King  Trpimir  in  S^y  in  ex- 
change for  ;^ii."     (F.  H.  Jackson.)     "Wine  of  the  CastelH, 

103 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

honey  of  Solta,  and  milk  of  Bua"  is  an  ancient  proverb 
which  is  still  true. 

As  we  near  the  city  we  notice  the  names  become  more 
Slavic,  and  the  word  "Split"  appears  on  the  guide-posts, 
to  our  mystification.  A  Roman  tomb  close  to  the  roadside, 
fragments  of  bas-reliefs  built  into  modern  huts,  a  column  or 
antique  sculpture  put  to  strange  uses,  —  all  these  indicate 
that  we  are  nearing  Salona,  the  ancient  Roman  capital  of 
Dalmatia.  We  cross  the  Jadro  with  a  glimpse  of  rushing 
waters  and  a  willow-fringed  bank;  glance  hastily  at  Vranjic, 
or  Piccola  Venezia,  as  we  surmount  a  low  ridge  and  see  just 
beyond  us  the  city  of  Spalato. 

Slowly  we  feel  our  way  past  the  Porta  Aurea,  around 
sharp  corners  and  along  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  until  we 
reach  the  sea  and  the  Grand  Hotel  Bellevue. 


104 


CHAPTER  IX 
SPALATO 

CPALATO,  Split,  or  Spljet,  the  largest  city  in  Dalmatia. 

has  burst  the  bounds  of  Diocletian's  Palace,  in  which 
she  was  once  confined,  and  is  now  spreading  far  beyond. 
Her  harbor,  with  Monte  Marjan  on  the  west,  has  been 
protected  by  an  enclosing  mole  five  hundred  and  thirty 
yards  long,  extending  to  the  Punta  di  Botticelle  on  the  east 
and  forming  a  sheltered  bay  where  all  manner  of  sea-craft 
find  safe  anchorage.  At  one  time  the  Austrian  admiralty 
were  inclined  to  make  this  the  principal  military  port,  but 
on  account  of  better  railroad  facilities  the  preference  was 
fortunately  given  to  Pola. 

Our  hotel,  —  adapted  from  a  former  city  hall,  —  faced 
the  quay  and  many  were  the  scenes  we  witnessed  from 
behind  our  curtained  windows.  Within  its  stately  loggia 
the  automobile  was  kept  in  full  view  of  the  city  populace, 
both  day  and  night.  To  be  sure,  when  undergoing  renova- 
tion it  was  surrounded  by  an  admiring  crowd,  but  unless 
the  chauffeur  was  there  the  people  never  ventured  near 
and  nothing  was  disturbed.  At  the  other  end  of  the  loggia 
we  had  our  meals  in  the  pleasant  outer  air,  and  groups  of 
peasants  roamed  through  the  silent  square  or  sat  in  patient 
waiting  on  post  or  step  or  curb. 

On  one  side  of  the  square  is  the  Court  House ;  a  modern 
building,  soft  yellowish  tan  in  color,  with  light  stone  trim- 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

mings,  and  not  unpleasing  in  its  quiet  outlines.  Beneath 
the  statues  on  the  roof,  the  lion  heads  on  the  jagade,  the 
flagstaff s  and  the  royal  shields,  are  five  entrances  exactly 
alike.  On  the  low  door-sills  sit  beggars  muffled  in  heavy 
coats,  —  the  men  finding  solace  in  their  pipes,  the  women 
in  regarding  the  men.  I  wonder  at  first  what  building  pos- 
sesses such  an  attraction  for  city  and  country  folks  alike. 
Upon  the  narrow  curb  about  the  Franz  Josef  fountain 
lounge  peasants  in  picturesque  groups.  The  women  have 
aprons  over  their  dark  blue  skirts  and  tight-sleeved  shirts 
under  the  corded  bodices.  They  draw  their  shapeless 
cloaks  about  them  and  peer  out  from  the  voluminous  white 
kerchiefs  which,  concealing  the  red  roll  on  their  heads, 
are  brought  about  in  a  half-Turkish,  half-Italian  fashion, 
so  as  to  almost  cover  the  mouth.  Is  it  a  survival  of  Oriental 
tradition,  or  are  the  poor  creatures  merely  cold  ? 

The  men  look  anxiously  across  at  the  formidable  door- 
ways of  the  Court  House ;  every  now  and  then  one  disappears 
within  its  darkness,  —  sometimes  reappearing  to  beckon  a 
selected  one  from  the  small  group.  Occasionally  a  pair  of 
excited  individuals  come  rushing  out,  shaking  their  fingers 
angrily  in  each  other's  face.  Are  they  quarrelling?  Not  at 
all.  They  are  merely  arguing  a  point  at  law.  Evidently 
the  Tribunale  has  as  much  fascination  for  these  good  people 
as  for  their  brothers  across  the  Adriatic.  It  is  somewhat 
surprising  to  an  American,  however,  to  see  a  horse  brought 
forth  from  one  of  these  same  doorways. 

A  turbaned  peasant  stalks  across  the  square,  stopping  to 
tap  his  pipe  against  his  pointed  opanka  before  he  fills  it 

1 06 


SPALATO 

from  that  capacious  belt  wherein  his  entire  stock  is  carried. 
The  woman  following  respectfully  behind  him  is  sheathed 
in  a  long  brown  cape  with  square  hanging  hood  below  her 
brown  kerchief.  Many  men  wear  turbans,  some  dark  red, 
some  Persian  in  coloring.  Are  they  Bosnians  from  the 
mountains,  or  is  this  a  relic  of  the  early  Illyrian  occupa- 
tion of  Dalmatia,  about  the  time  of  Christ?  What  is  that 
woman  carrying  as  she  moves  swiftly  across  the  square? 
Can  it  be  a  calf?  It  is  —  and  not  a  small  one,  either  —  for 
its  legs  hang  to  the  ground.  She  stops  to  rest  a  moment 
against  the  fountain's  railing  but  her  burden  remains  quiet  in 
her  strong  embrace. 

A  nattily  dressed  young  man  has  been  standing  at  the 
door  of  the  Court  House  for  an  hour.     His  new  red  cap, 

—  jauntily  awry  on  his  curly  locks,  —  his  embroidered 
trousers,  silk-fringed  jacket,  red  sash  and  silver-buttoned 
vest  and  immaculate,  collarless  white  shirt  betoken  a  holi- 
day attire.  He  swings  a  clumsy  umbrella  nonchalantly,  — 
in  an  endeavor  to  show  his  indifference;  but  furtively  looks 
at  his  watch.     Is  it  some  "not  impossible  She"  who  is  late, 

—  or  is  it  merely  a  business  engagement  ?  The  air  is  cool, 
with  a  north  wind,  and  men  don  their  overcoats.  Half 
an  hour  later  my  tall  young  Adonis  is  still  waiting.  Still 
he  looks  down  every  corner.  He  glances  at  the  big  clock  in 
the  church  tower  as  it  strikes  ten,  and  yawns  unhappily; 
he  saunters  beyond  the  Franz  Josef  fountain  and  gazes 
down  the  broad  quay;  —  among  all  that  moving  mass  of 
people  where  is  the  expected  she  ? 

Suddenly  there  is  a  great  commotion  in  the  streets  and 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

voices,  whose  vehement  tones  seem  to  indicate  anger,  if  the 
tongue  is  incomprehensible.  It  is  not  necessarily  a  fight, 
—  although  the  sound  of  blows  comes  to  my  ears.  No.  It 
is  only  a  man  using  the  more  forcible  arts  of  persuasion  to 
induce  another  to  lead  his  donkey  for  him.  "Much  ado 
about  nothing!"  What  excitable  people  these  Dalmatians 
seem  to  be! 

Still  Orlando  waits  and  Rosalind  comes  not. 

Between  the  Court  House  and  the  sea,  on  this  side  of 
the  square,  stand  the  church  and  monastery  of  St.  Francis. 
The  Friars  have  put  a  brave  new  white  fagade  and  belfry 
upon  their  former  creamy  buildings,  but  fortunately  have 
preserved  the  beautiful  mottled  roofs  intact.  Within  that 
belfry  are  bells  which  ring  in  and  out  of  season.  One  ex- 
pects it  at  the  hours,  and  quarters,  even,  —  but  to  ding  in 
a  constant  hammering  at  noon,  —  at  7:25  P.M.,  —  and 
particularly  at  4:45  A.  M.,  —  without  apparent  reason, 
seems  a  trifle  superfluous.  It  is  not  a  solemn  and  digni- 
fied tone,  either,  but  a  dancing  dingle,  out  of  all  harmony 
with  priestly  functions. 

Loading  and  unloading  at  the  quay  adjoining  the  monas- 
tery are  broad-prowed  native  boats;  the  sky  is  heavy  with 
thunder  clouds  and  the  water  suspiciously  oily;  at  the  end 
of  the  long  stone  breakwater,  the  lighthouse  stands  outlined 
against  warm-tinted  mountains ;  in  the  distance  a  ship  under 
full  sail  is  just  entering  the  Canale  della  Brazza.  The  real 
harbor  is  far  to  our  left,  and  as  we  walk  toward  it  along  the 
quay,  this  first  morning,  we  pass  quaint  Dalmatian  boats, 
their  masts  draped  with  fishing  nets  hung  in  graceful  fashion 

108 


CORRIDORS    Co.WF.RrKI)    INTO   STREETS,    SI'ALAIO 


SPALATO 

to  dry,  and  each  awning-covered  deck  displaying  a  tempting 
cargo  of  oranges  and  lemons.  So  fascinating  are  these  bits 
of  sea-life  that  it  is  difficult  to  tear  ourselves  away. 

Facing  this  harbor  lies  Diocletian's  splendid  palace, 
—  erected  305  A.  D.,  —  which,  in  spite  of  its  adaptation  to 
modern  usage,  still  retains  its  ancient  charm.  A  stately 
palace,  indeed,  did  this  great  Dalmatian  build,  when, 
at  the  age  of  fifty- nine,  he  gave  up  the  glory  of  an  imperial 
crown,  —  which  he,  first  of  all  Roman  emperors,  had  dared 
to  wear,  —  and  returned  to  the  obscurity  of  a  private  citi- 
zen in  the  land  where  he  was  born  a  slave.  "Obscurity," 
perhaps,  but  magnificent  obscurity;  for  this  royal  villa  on 
the  sea-shore  covers  nine  and  a  half  acres,  and  was  so  solidly 
constructed  that  even  now,  —  after  the  vicissitudes  of  six- 
teen centuries,  —  so  much  of  it  remains  that  we  can  easily 
imagine  what  it  must  have  been  in  all  its  pristine  glory. 
''Such  stupendous  workmanship  is  only  for  the  masters  of  the 
world,  Egyptian  Pharaohs,  Roman  Caesars:  it  has  never  been 
possible  in  any  state  of  society  since  that  of  the  Roman  Empire 
in  the  fourth  century  and  it  can  never  be  possible  again." 

Within  its  walls  a  city  has  been  cradled;  with  streets, 
temples,  campanile,  market-places,  forums,  and  hundreds  of 
homes.  To  be  sure,  the  town  has  now  outgrown  these  swad- 
dling clothes ;  but  its  most  interesting  quarter  lies  still  inside 
the  old  palace. 

We  follow  the  busy  crowd  under  its  dark  archways  and 
through  its  corridors,  converted  into  streets,  until  we  come 
to  a  tiny  piazza  encumbered  with  a  rough  shed;  story  on 
story  of  scaffolding  reaches  into  the  sky. 

109 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

"But  I  thought  we  were  going  to  the  cathedral,"  remarks 
Madame  Content. 

''The  jagade  of  the  cathedral,"  answers  the  Leader,  "is 
behind  the  shed  and  this  scaffolding  encloses  the  campanile." 

It  has  been  in  process  of  restoration  for  over  twenty 
years,  the  cnstode  informs  us.  A  costly,  as  well  as  tedious, 
undertaking;  may  it  prove  successful  when  finished! 

No,  we  cannot  enter  here,  —  we  must  go  back  through 
the  rotunda.  This  was  formerly  the  vestibule  of  the  palace 
and  covered  by  a  dome;  now  it  is  in  crumbling  ruins. 
Through  narrow  lanes  and  up  a  flight  of  temporary  steps 
we  reach  a  side  door  and  enter  what  is  popularly  known  as 
the  mausoleum  of  Diocletian,  —  although  antiquarians 
call  it  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  —  now  consecrated  to  the 
Virgin  and  St.  Doimo.  Circular  in  form,  its  interior  instant- 
ly recalls  the  Pantheon  at  Rome,  although  it  lacks  the  cen- 
tral opening  in  the  dome;  it  is  much  smaller,  too,  being 
only  thirty-five  feet,  three  inches  in  diameter  within  the 
columns.  At  one  point  in  the  gallery  a  word  spoken  low  in 
an  opposite  niche  can  be  plainly  heard.  Was  this  peculi- 
arity utilized  for  oracular  responses?  The  pulpit  is  rich 
in  vari-colored  marbles  and  columns,  with  capitals  of  mar- 
vellous interlacing  and  undercutting.  "  In  point  of  technical 
execution  and  ingenuity  of  design,  I  know  of  nothing  in 
Romanesque  art  to  surpass  them."  (T.  G.  Jackson.) 
Guvina  is  accredited  with  this  work  by  late  authorities. 

The  carving  at  the  back  of  the  choir  stalls  is  curiously 
like  the  mushrabieh  work  of  Cairo;  but  the  delicacy  of  the 
execution  of  the  whole  and  the  resemblance  to  the  style  of 


SPALATO 

the  great  doors  show  that  they  were  probably  by  the  same 
hand.  They  are  said  to  have  been  made  for  S.  Stefano 
de  Pinis,  which  was  afterwards  destroyed.  The  ends  seem 
to  date  from  some  three  centuries  later;  while  a  heavy 
cornice,  which  adds  nothing  to  their  effectiveness,  was  prob- 
ably added  when  the  present  choir  was  built  and  the  stalls 
brought  over,  from  near  the  pulpit,  where  they  originally 
stood. 

Later  on,  —  at  the  Baptistery,  where  they  have  lain 
for  twenty  years,  —  we  saw  the  great  doors  of  the  cathedral ; 
"among  the  earliest  as  well  as  the  finest  specimens  of  mediae- 
val woodwork  in  existence."  Fourteen  panels,  divided  by 
scrolls  and  knot-work,  represent  scenes  in  the  life  of  Christ. 
They  were  executed  in  12 14  by  one  Messer  Andrea  Guvina, 
—  a  Slav,  if  one  may  judge  by  his  name,  —  who  settled  in 
Spalato,  and,  absorbing  the  art  of  his  adopted  country, 
became  a  painter  as  well  as  a  famous  carver  in  wood.  Here, 
at  the  Baptistery,  we  see  again  the  curious  stone-arched  roof 
construction  which  the  architects  at  Sebenico  used  with 
such  extraordinary  effect. 

The  entrance  to  the  Baptistery  is  through  a  monumental 
doorway  formed  of  three  stones,  the  full  thickness  of  the 
walls,  but  covered  with  exquisite  carving.  It  is  amazing 
to  think  that  this  delicate  ornamentation  has  remained 
intact  through  sixteen  hundred  years  of  siege,  sunshine,  and 
storm.  Except  for  the  font,  the  interior  of  this  small  rec- 
tangular temple  is  exactly  as  it  was  when  Diocletian  first 
sacrificed  upon  its  altar,  —  dedicating  it  to  Esculapius. 
The  coffered  ceiling  is  superb,  leaving  nothing  to  be  desired. 

Ill 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

The  font,  which  takes  the  place  of  the  ancient  altar,  is  in 
the  form  of  a  Greek  cross,  and  was  constructed  in  15 27- 1533 
by  the  archbishop  Andrea  Cornelio  from  panels  probably 
brought  from  the  cathedral.  It  consists  of  fourteen  slabs 
'*of  Greek  marble  with  blue  veins.  Six  of  the  external  slabs 
have  early  mediaeval  carvings,  one  has  Roman  ornament ;  a 
Roman  inscription  is  on  the  back  of  another,  the  rest  are 
smooth  back  and  front,  and  several  have  been  sawn.  They 
are  nearly  the  same  height  and  thickness,  but  vary  in  length, 
and  were  part  of  some  chancel  enclosure,  altar,  or  sarcopha- 
gus. The  carvings  are  probably  of  the  eleventh  century, 
and  are  extremely  curious.  It  is  possible  that  they  may  be 
works  of  Mag.  Otto,  though  the  character  of  the  patterns 
points  rather  to  the  Comacines."  (F.  H.  Jackson.)  The 
fine  sarcophagi  formerly  here  have  been  removed  to  the 
museum,  where  they  are  crowded  in  with  a  jumble  of  an- 
tiquities without  pretence  of  installation. 

Through  a  dim  labyrinth  of  archways,  —  opening  at 
intervals  into  small  irregular  piazzas,  —  we  saunter,  amus- 
ing ourselves  by  gazing  into  the  tiny  shops  where  cheese  and 
pickles,  silver  filigree  and  embroideries,  bread,  meat,  and  gay 
calicoes  are  displayed.  We  watch  the  swarthy  Morlacchi 
with  their  curious  bags  of  merchandise  slung  over  their 
shoulders,  their  snowy  kerchiefs  and  full  sleeves  making 
bright  spots  in  the  dark  shadows  of  the  street. 

Following  the  gay  procession  we  come  to  the  Piazza 
dei  Signori,  where  every  angle  discloses  a  new  and  delight- 
ful picture  —  a  mediaeval  clock  tower,  a  balconied  palace, 
a  stately  fagade;    but  perhaps  most  interesting  of  them  all 

112 


SPALATO 

is  the  former  loggia,  a  relic  of  the  fourteenth  century,  restored 
in  189 1  and  now  used  as  the  Town  Hall.  In  this  piazza, 
too,  is  an  excellent  bookstore,  where  maps  and  plans  and 
photographs,  besides  books  and  any  quantity  of  useful  infor- 
mation, may  always  be  obtained. 

From  the  quay  a  corniced  tower  rises  high  above  the 
surrounding  roofs  and,  searching,  we  found  it  in  the  market- 
place. A  new  tower,  this,  —  for  the  Venetians  erected  it 
about  1450,  in  a  line  of  fortifications  just  beyond  the  walls 
of  Diocletian's  Palace.  Now  a  market-place  is  always  a 
fascinating  spot,  —  full  of  local  color  and  kaleidoscopic 
effects.  Aside  from  the  people  the  booths  themselves  are 
a  study  and  often  their  contents  appeal  to  a  more  carnal 
sense;  for  this  is  a  fruit  and  vegetable  market  and  great 
baskets  of  luscious  products  are  displayed  under  the  shel- 
tering canvas. 

The  oranges  are  too  tempting  to  be  resisted  and  I 
stop  to  buy  of  an  enormously  fat  woman  eating  from  her 
little  sauce-pan  what  looks  like  a  delicious  lamb  stew  with 
rice. 

''Where  do  you  come  from?"  she  sociably  inquires,  as 
I  wait  for  my  change.  A  small  child  has  suddenly  appeared 
and  taken  the  kronen  to  a  neighboring  shop. 

"From  America,"  I  proudly  answer,  but  am  somewhat 
taken  back  when  she  asks  "Which  one?"  For  usually 
there  is  no  distinction  at  this  distance. 

"From  Chicago,"  I  respond.     "Do  you  know  it?" 

"E  —  h!"  she  replies,  with  that  expressive  intonation 
with  which  the  Latin  nations  adorn  their  language.     I  know 

113 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

instantly  that  she  has  never  been  there,  but  she  has  heard 
of  it. 

"Does  this  country  please  you?" 

"Very  much,"  I  answer. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here,  in  Spalato?" 

"Only  yesterday  we  came,  but  we  are  to  stay  four 
days." 

It  was  now  my  turn.     "What  are  those  blackish  pods?" 

"They  are  carob  beans  and  very  good  to  eat." 

"Like  this,  or  cooked?" 

"Like  this,  —  try  one,"  and  she  insists  that  the  small 
child,  who  has  by  this  time  returned  with  the  money,  shall 
wipe  the  dust  off  from  four  and  that  I  must  take  them  for 
nothing.  They  are  good,  with  a  thin,  sweetish  layer  around 
the  kernel,  like  figs,  but  a  bit  dry  unless  one  is  very  hungry. 
So  attractive  is  the  little  maid  that  I  persuade  her  to  stand 
in  shy  dignity  for  her  photograph. 

"Marinovic  K — ,"  she  writes  in  answer  to  my  ques- 
tion ;  —  and  the  address ?    "  Oh,  Trg  Voca  —  Spalato." 

When  I  went  back,  on  another  day,  for  a  chat,  making  no 
pretence  of  buying,  the  woman  greeted  me  with  stately 
friendliness.  "That  is  beautiful,  your  necklace,"  she 
remarked,  after  the  fine  weather  had  been  discussed.  "It 
is  old,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "from  India." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  it  was  old,"  she  asserted. 

"And  yours?"  I  ventured,  for  she  wore  a  curiously 
wrought  gold  chain  with  heavy  pendants. 

"  Mine,  too,  is  old.     It  was  my  mother's  mother's  —  and 

114 


SPALATO 

perhaps  older  than  that,"  —  and  her  fat  fingers  felt  of  it 
lovingly. 

"We  are  going  away  to-morrow,"  I  regretfully  exclaimed ; 
"I  would  like  so  much  to  stay  longer." 

"But  you  will  come  again,"  she  calmly  prophesied,  —  as 
if  Dalmatia  were  close  to  far  America,  and  Spalato  a  station 
on  the  great  highway. 


"5 


CHAPTER  X 
SALONA  —  CLISSA  —  SOURCE   OF   THE  JADRO 

'"IIT'HY  wouldn't  this  be  a  good  time  to  see  Salona?" 
asks  the  Leader  on  a  golden  day  in  Spalato.  And  to 
Salona  we  go  in  a  native  "carriage,"  —  as  the  road  into  the 
ruins  is  said  to  be  unsuitable  for  the  motor;  thus  we  have 
ample  leisure  to  admire  the  elaborate  harness  with  which 
so  many  horses  are  bedecked.  Such  brave  display  of  shin- 
ing brass  in  rings  and  cut  designs;  such  gorgeous  tassels 
almost  touching  the  ground !  The  distance  is  only  four  miles 
and  the  countryside  enchanting  with  hawthorn  hedges, 
Stars  of  Bethlehem,  and  the  white  bells  of  the  giant  snow- 
drops, —  growing,  however,  in  such  marshy  places  that 
even  my  enthusiasm  has  to  be  restrained.  The  sea  is  radi- 
ant beneath  the  stern  gray  mountains  and  reflects  the  towers 
and  many  colored  houses  on  the  Riviera  of  the  Sette  Castelli 
in  rippling  shadows;  on  our  right  the  aqueduct  of  Diocle- 
tian extends  across  the  green  fields ;  and  far  ahead  looms  the 
ancient  pyramidal  fortress  of  Clissa. 

At  an  inn,  or,  gosHona,  where  the  Virginia  creeper  hangs 
in  charming  festoons  between  antique  columns,  we  turn 
sharply  toward  the  ruins  and  stop  at  the  house  of  Professor 
Bulic  to  secure  a  guide.  There  is  more  to  see  at  Salona 
than  I  had  expected,  although  every  ruined  city  has  to  be 
studied  carefully  in  advance  in  order  that  one's  imagination 
may  be  able  to  reconstruct  it  from  the  fragments.     We 

n6 


SALONA-CLISSA 

knew  that  Salona  was  the  ancient  capital  of  Dalmatia  and 
"one  of  the  proudest  provincial  cities  of  the  Roman  world"; 
also  that  it  was  situated  at  the  base  of  Mt.  Kozjak  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Jadro  River;  —  but  to  stand  on  the  spot  and 
look  up  at  the  splendid  towering  mountains,  then  down  at 
the  sparkling  sea,  —  how  different  the  impression.  How 
much  more  real  the  Romans  become!  On  this  same  land- 
scape they  were  wont  to  gaze,  over  these  blue  waters  came 
their  loaded  boats!  Did  the  nightingale  sing  in  the  sun- 
shine for  them,  too  ?  And  the  white  terns  sweep  in  great 
curves  overhead? 

The  ancient  city  walls  have  been  traced  with  remains 
of  eighty-eight  towers;  but  only  the  most  ardent  archaeolo- 
gist would  care  to  follow  their  half-buried  foundations.  We 
are  interested  in  the  sixth  century  Christian  Baptistery 
whose  walls  are  still  several  feet  high,  circular  in  form  and 
colonnaded ;  in  the  centre  is  a  sunken  pool,  lined  with  marble, 
in  the  shape  of  a  cross  and  formerly  used  for  immersion. 
Several  fragments  of  Roman  mosaics,  carefully  covered  with 
earth  as  a  protection  from  the  sun,  are  swept  bare  for  our 
benefit  by  a  crowd  of  gamins,  who,  knowing  well  the  course 
of  tourists,  keep  constantly  ahead  of  us. 

The  arrangements  of  the  baths  are  similar  to  those  at 
Pompeii  and  plainly  to  be  traced.  Most  curious  of  all,  how- 
ever, is  the  Basilica  of  the  fifth  century,  which  was  destroyed 
in  639,  when  the  Avars  burned  the  city  and  forced  the  inhabi- 
tants to  take  refuge  in  the  empty  Palace  of  Diocletian. 
Recent  excavations  under  the  floor  of  this  Basilica  have  dis- 
closed the  fact  that  it  was  built  on  the  site  of  an  early  Chris- 

117 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

tian  cemetery.  The  ground  was  apparently  levelled  at  the 
height  of  the  largest  tomb  and  the  church  erected  upon  it. 
Stone  sarcophagi,  with  and  without  lids,  —  sometimes  sculp- 
tured, often  inscribed,  but  always  mutilated,  —  lie  about 
in  such  profusion  that  it  is  difficult  to  follow  the  foundations 
of  the  church.  The  most  important  ones  have  been  taken 
to  the  museum  at  Spalato,  although  there  is  a  long  row  of 
them  lying  end  to  end  in  what  is  known  as  the  Necropolis 
Suburbana  outside  the  walls.  We  spent  an  inspiring  after- 
noon roaming  over  this  historic  ground  and  brought  away  a 
sprig  of  the  rosemary,  growing  in  abundance  between  the 
stones. 

One  sparkling  morning,  when  the  air  is  mild,  we  motor 
by  the  Salona  road  up  the  slopes  of  Mt.  Kozjak  in  long, 
climbing  loops,  the  Roman  Via  Gabiniana,  through  olive 
orchards,  figs  and  pomegranates,  succeeded  by  flowering 
raspberries  and  sweet-brier,  until  the  rocky  soil  finally 
refuses  to  produce  anything  but  junipers  or  an  occasional 
pine.  Below  us,  as  we  mount,  the  panorama  grows  more 
extensive ;  Salona  and  the  Jadro,  Spalato  and  the  sea  with 
the  far  distant  islands ;  how  magnificent  a  spectacle ! 

The  strange,  bare  peak  of  Mt.  Mosor  confronts  us 
across  a  deep  abyss;  so  twisted,  so  dishevelled  by  volcanic 
action  are  its  sides  that  the  rock  strata  lies  in  great  swirls 
like  gigantic  oyster  shells !  Nearer  us  on  an  isolated  rock 
is  perched  the  ruined  fortress  of  Clissa  which  formerly  com- 
manded the  pass  between  Sinj  and  Spalato.  The  road  has 
been  carried  with  great  skill  to  within  a  short  distance  of 
its  vine-draped  walls,  and  we  walk  up  the  path  to  enjoy  the 

ii8 


MARKETIXC,    IX    SPALATO 


MiklKKSS   ()1-    CI.ISSA,    .\KAR    SI'ALA  K  ) 


SALONA  — CLISSA 

splendid  prospect.  Below  us  is  the  small  village  of  Clissa, 
with  its  curious  roofs  of  overlapping  stones;  the  white 
campanile  of  its  church  stands  as  a  beacon  for  the  workers 
on  the  long  slopes  of  the  mountain.  It  is  a  wonderfully 
interesting  landscape,  rich  in  historical  associations;  for 
Clissa  (in  Slavic  Klis)  has  been  the  shuttlecock  between 
Slavs  and  Latins,  Bosnians  and  Venetians,  Turks,  Austrians, 
and  Frenchmen,  each  in  turn,  for  fifteen  hundred  years. 
Beyond  the  green  valley  southward  lies  Spalato,  by  the  shin- 
ing sea,  with  Piccola  Venezia  reflected  in  the  still  water  of 
the  Salonian  Gulf;  farther  away  the  gently  rolling  island 
of  Solta  and  Brazza's  towering  peaks;  then  Bua,  seeming, 
from  this  high  level,  almost  to  touch  Spalato. 

''In  that  wooded  hollow  the  Jadro  rises,  according  to  the 
map,"  points  out  the  Leader.  "  Do  you  see  any  road  leading 
that  way?" 

"Yes,  there  by  the  mill;  can't  you  see  it?"  And  we 
trace  it  to  the  Clissa  highway. 

Without  discussion,  on  our  homeward  way,  we  turn  aside 
at  the  "Gostiona  Kate  Grubic"  and  follow  the  narrow  ex- 
cuse for  a  road  leading  to  the  source  of  the  Jadro.  Before  we 
have  gone  far  along  it,  however,  a  ford  deepened  by  the  re- 
cent rains  compels  us  to  abandon  the  car  and  cross  the  stream 
on  stepping-stones.  Beyond,  the  road  is  low  and  wet;  but  we 
keep  close  to  the  willows  thickly  planted  on  the  river  banks 
and  come  at  last  to  the  mill  of  Vidovic.  Such  a  beautiful 
spot !  —  thickly  overgrown  with  vines  and  many  trees.  Wis- 
taria and  Judas  trees  are  in  blossom;  above  the  stone  walls 
hawthorn  blooms;    the  combination   of  violet,   rose  color, 

119 


MOTORING    IN  THE    BALKANS 

and  white,  is  exquisite.  But  the  Leader  never  hesitates,  — 
this,  evidently,  is  not  the  "source,"  and  he  marches  resolutely 
onward.  We  resist  the  wild  anemones  growing  in  profusion 
along  the  way  and  follow  half-reluctantly,  expecting  at  every 
bend  to  see  the  "source";  but  instead  of  becoming  smaller, 
more  brook-like,  the  Jadro  seems  to  increase  in  size,  the 
current  is  swift,  and  occasionally  the  river  broadens  to  a  tiny 
lake.  At  last  a  precipice  rises  before  us,  and  at  its  foot 
pours  forth  from  a  reverberating  cave  a  tumultuous,  tossing 
flood!  Behold  the  source!  The  noise  is  deafening.  Huge 
birds  sweep  down  in  circling  flight  from  the  bare  crags.  The 
rocky  banks  are  gay  with  flowering  shrubs,  genista,  wild 
daisies,  and  calendula.  Two  tiny  mills  bend  beneath  the 
weight  of  ivy  nourished  by  the  continual  mist.  It  is  our 
first  sight  of  these  strange  subterranean  streams  which  are 
born,  full-flooded,  from  the  mountain-side,  to  disappear 
again  at  times  beneath  a  wall  of  rock.  The  Jadro  has  a 
short  career  intact ;  for  its  waters  are  partially  diverted  into 
the  aqueduct  of  Diocletian,  six  miles  long,  which  again, 
since  1879,  supplies  the  city  of  Spalato. 

The  return  walk  through  the  country  is  delightful.  On 
a  sunny  slope  a  shepherdess  sings  "Dolce  Maria"  as  she 
knits,  her  rich,  sweet  voice  rising  and  falling  in  melodious 
cadence.  The  child  by  her  side  forgets  to  munch  his  dry 
bread  as  he  listens,  and  we,  too,  pause  to  hear. 

On  reaching  the  ford  again  we  discover  that  the  stream 
has  risen  and  all  the  stepping-stones  are  under  water.  The 
natives  calmly  take  off  their  shoes  and  stockings  and  wade 
over;  but  the  cramping  and  inconvenient  habits  of  civiliza- 

120 


SALONA  — CLISSA 

tion  prove  too  strong  for  us.  What  can  we  do?  The 
Leader  scoffs  at  wet  shoes,  —  not  so  Her  Ladyship.  "My 
only  pair!  I'm  sure  I  should  take  cold.  No,  there  must 
be  some  other  way."  Thereupon,  as  if  in  answer  to  her 
cry,  appears  an  empty  wagon  and  by  gestures  we  induce  the 
driver  to  lay  the  adjustable  sides  of  his  cart  on  stones  across 
the  flood.  With  smiling  complaisance  he  accomplishes 
this  so  successfully  that  we  cross  dry  shod  and  happy. 

The  further  south  we  travel  in  Dalmatia,  the  less  Italian 
influence  is  visible.  Outside  of  the  cities  the  language  is 
never  understood  and  even  in  Spalato  the  notices  in  our 
rooms  at  the  hotel  are  in  Slavic,  as  well  as  German  and 
Italian.  The  proper  names  are  very  confusing.  It  is  hard 
enough  to  remember  one  name  for  each  new  place,  but  when 
forced  to  memorize  two  the  brain  rebels;  also,  there  seem 
to  be  so  many  ways  of  spelling  the  same  word  that  one's 
principles  of  orthography  become  sadly  lax.  No  two  maps 
agree,  until  finally  we  decide  to  adopt  the  phonetic  method 
and  be  content. 

One  of  the  joys  of  travelling  by  motor  is  that  there  are 
no  iron  rules  in  the  matter  of  time,  no  railway  accommoda- 
tions or  hotel  rooms  engaged  in  advance;  so  when  Her 
Ladyship  begs  for  one  day  more  in  Spalato  we  stay  on. 

"Why  another  day?"  asks  the  Leader,  curiously,  "What 
do  you  wish  to  see  ?" 

"Nothing  at  all,"  she  makes  answer,  "I  want  a  free  day 
to  wander  about  in,  with  nothing  especial  that  I  must  do." 

It  is  a  still  sunny  day  and  the  feeling  of  freedom  is 
delightful.     We  even  sit  by  the  window  with  our  sewing,  as 

121 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

if  we  were  at  home,  and  the  Leader  reads  aloud  to  us,  re- 
viewing what  we  have  seen. 

"I  wonder  where  that  street  leads!"  I  say,  casually, 
pointing  to  the  corner  between  the  Court  House  and  the 
monastery,  ''The  country  people  so  often  disappear  in  that 
direction." 

''Why  not  go  and  see?"  urges  the  Leader,  always 
charmed  with  new  suggestions. 

So  in  the  late  afternoon  we  turn  the  familiar  corner  and 
face  a  stone-paved  street,  which  soon  resolves  itself  into 
shallow  steps.  This  is  lined  with  low  houses,  and  the  at- 
mosphere is  heavy  with  odors  by  no  means  agreeable ;  for 
we  are  just  above  the  famous  Sulphur  Springs  which  here 
flow  into  the  sea.  This  water,  carried  into  certain  elab- 
orately appointed  baths,  is  one  of  the  luxuries  of  the  city. 

Hordes  of  children  are  at  work  or  play  before  their 
homes,  and  in  that  sociable  fashion  peculiar  to  Italy  the 
labor  of  the  house  is  transacted  in  the  open  air.  Gradually 
the  houses  disappear  and  woods  of  maritime  pine  and  juni- 
per, with  newly  laid  out  avenues  upon  the  hillside,  take 
their  place;  a  lofty  terrace  with  convenient  benches  beguiles 
us,  and  we  are  well  rewarded  for  our  steep  climb.  Below 
us  lies  the  lovely  bay  of  Spalato,  glowing  in  the  sun's  last 
rays;  the  walls  of  Diocletian's  Palace  can  easily  be  traced; 
and  beyond  it  and  the  green  valley  rises  Clissa  on  its  solitary 
peak,  with  Mt.  Mosor  beside  it ;  —  for  we  are  on  the  fair 
slopes  of  Mt.  Marjan,  in  the  midst  of  vines  and  fig-trees, 
with  countless  wild  flowers  nodding  in  the  grass  beside  us, 
and  the  glory  of  an  Oriental  sunset  transforming  the  scene. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SPALATO   TO    METKOVIC 

npHIS  last  morning  in  Spalato,  roused  by  the  monastery 
bell  at  five  o'clock,  I  lean  from  my  window.  A 
crescent  moon  hangs  in  the  western  sky,  pale  against  the 
coming  light.  Already  the  cargo  boats  arc  stirring  at  the 
quay.  A  belated  blue  one,  with  white  sail,  comes  dashing 
over  the  water  before  the  fresh  breeze.  A  fishing-smack 
pushes  off,  —  under  the  touch  of  the  sun  her  patched  and 
discolored  lateen  sail  is  changed  to  a  sheet  of  silver,  as  the 
boat  glides  swiftly  toward  the  island  of  Solta.  A  trim  white 
yacht  enters  the  port.  The  sea  is  the  richest  sapphire,  the 
mountains  a  rosy  tan,  at  their  feet  nestle  white  villages,  — 
Zrnovnica  and  Mravince,  and  the  belfrys  of  St.  Peter  and 
St.  Luke. 

The  cargo  boats  are  tugging  at  their  ropes,  —  they  beg 
the  men  to  hasten  with  the  unloading,  —  this  breeze  after 
so  many  days  of  calm  must  not  be  wasted.  We,  too,  are 
eager  to  be  on  our  way. 

The  Leader  looks  upon  the  motor  merely  as  a  means 
to  an  end;  as  a  method  of  transportation,  comfortable  and 
rapid  enough,  making  possible  many  excursions  only  acces- 
sible to  the  walker,  bicyclist,  or  caravaner.  Not  so,  we 
two.  We  love  the  motor  for  itself  alone.  We  climb  into 
its  capacious  tonneau;  sink  into  its  luxurious  springy  seat, 
just  the  right  height,  with  a  back  which  touches  just  the 

123 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

right  places;  tuck  the  fleece-Uned  leather  robes  about  us 
tightly,  and  as  the  car  moves  gently  off,  —  gradually  increas- 
ing its  speed  until  it  settles  down  to  the  steady  hum  which 
tells  of  perfectly  adjusted  machinery,  —  we  look  at  each 
other  in  sheer  sensuous  joy  of  the  motion,  and  up  to  the  very 
last  day  of  our  journey  we  exclaim,  "Isn't  it  blissful!  Is 
there  anything  to  equal  it  ?"  Tired  heads  clear  in  this  rush 
of  pure  air,  knitted  brows  unconsciously  relax  in  the  splen- 
did ozone.  No  one  ever  feels  the  obligation  of  talking,  — 
there  is  too  much  to  observe  in  the  near  as  well  as  the  dis- 
tant landscape. 

''Kako  se  zove  ova  selo  ?  (What  is  the  name  of  that 
village?)"  I  murmur,  as  we  roll  along  the  highway,  leaving 
Spalato  behind  us,  bound  for  Ragusa  via  Metkovic. 
"What  are  you  talking  about?"  asks  my  companion. 
"I  am  trying  it  in  different  intonations  to  see  which 
sounds  the  best.  I  wish  I  might  hear  some  one  say  it  just 
once,  — -  it  would  be  such  a  help.  That  is  where  the  phono- 
graph —  " 

"It  must  be  a  holiday  to-day,"  interrupts  Her  Ladyship. 
"Do  see  all  the  peasants  coming  to  town.  What  beautiful 
costumes!" 

Donkeys  amble  before  them,  laden  with  all  manner  of 
products  in  wide  baskets  or  saddle-bags,  —  for  five  kilo- 
meters we  are  forced  to  run  very  carefully,  often  stopping,  to 
avoid  frightening  them.  We  catch  a  last  glimpse  of 
Clissa  above  the  green  valley,  surrounded  by  misty  moun- 
tains, and  on  our  right  the  blue  sea  bounded  by  Brazza's 

rocky  heights. 

124 


WriH    WHAT    SPLKXDID    FREED(J.M    SHE    WALKS! 
(ragusa) 


SPALATO    TO    METKOVIC 

The  attention  of  the  Leader,  however,  is  taken  up  with 
the  exciting  episodes  of  the  road;  for  women  are  leaping 
from  their  donkeys  and  dragging  them  to  the  safe  harbor  of 
the  ditches.  The  men,  and  especially  the  boys,  sit  more 
calmly  on  their  small  beasts  and  look  in  delighted  wonder 
at  our  comparatively  swift  flight. 

Crossing  the  Stobrec  River  we  look  back  at  a  pictur- 
esque huddle  of  houses  on  a  rock  jutting  into  a  bay.  It  is 
Stobrec  itself. 

Over  a  small  ridge,  then  down  a  straight,  smooth  coast 
road,  well  marked  with  kilometer  posts  and  lined  with  vines, 
olives,  and  figs,  alternating  with  young  pines,  we  speed. 
Here  the  grapes  are  actually  in  leaf  and  planted  in  rows  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  gravelly  beach;  for  these  southern 
slopes  of  Mt.  Mosor  are  finely  cultivated,  and  for  nearly 
six  hundred  years,  from  1235  to  1807,  formed  the  tiny  Repub- 
lic of  Poljica  until  seized  in  the  octopus-like  grasp  of 
France. 

The  road  runs  close  to  the  sea,  bending  around  its  sharp 
points  and  curving  through  tiny  hamlets.  Many  cherry 
and  almond  trees  spring  from  the  rocky  soil,  for  here  the 
cherry,  known  as  marasca,  grows  wild,  from  which  is  made 
the  famous  maraschino  wine.  In  one  deep  cove,  whose 
vineyards  reach  to  the  top  of  the  cliff,  a  tiny  chapel  dedi- 
cated to  "Sv.  Stipan"  stands  on  a  projecting  rock,  while 
near  by  a  solitary  villa  flies  the  national  flag. 

Around  another  point,  and  the  rose  hedges  are  pink  with 
new  leaves.  We  notice  that  with  every  mile  southward  the 
vegetation  is  more  advanced.     At  last  before  us  lies  the 

125 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

lovely  bay  of  Almissa,  with  its  charming  little  town,  a  mere 
strip  at  the  water's  edge  below  the  cone-like  Mt.  Dinara. 

From  the  precipitous  Mt.  Borak  the  ruined  castle  of 
]Mirabella  looks  down, —  so  long  the  headquarters  of  a  pirate 
band.  ''Unassailable  by  land  on  account  of  the  barrier  of 
mountains  at  their  back,  and  protected  by  the  intricacy  of 
the  channel  from  attack  by  sea,  the  Almissan  corsairs  drove 
a  splendid  trade  and  robbed  every  passer-by,  even  pilgrims 
on  their  way  to  the  Holy  Land." 

Here  we  cross  the  Cetina  River,  and  leaving  the  sea  turn 
into  a  narrow  gorge  with  tremendous  cliffs  on  either  side. 
The  rains  have  swollen  the  river  and  formed  cascades  down 
the  bare  precipices.  At  each  turn  we  expect  to  find  the  road 
submerged,  so  near  the  water's  edge  is  it.  Sheer  crags  rise 
beside  us,  dotted  with  emerald  spurge  {euphorbia  higland- 
ulosa);  but  across  the  stream  the  slopes  are  gay  with  pale 
green  poplars.  Flocks  of  swallows  circle  above  us.  Closer 
and  closer  the  crags  approach,  narrower  and  narrower 
grows  the  canyon  until  the  road  and  the  river  fill  it  com- 
pletely; but  this  proves  to  be  the  entrance  to  a  sunny,  open 
valley,  where  pines  and  olives  vie  with  the  willows,  poplars, 
and  elms  in  the  green  garb  of  Spring. 

Close  to  the  road,  in  a  grove  of  forest  trees,  nestle  the 
picturesque  mills  of  Vissech  (sometimes  known  as  the  Rad- 
man  mills).  Here  is  evidently  a  birds'  Paradise,  for  they 
rise  in  bewitching  variety  as  we  fly  by. 

Our  route  now  leaves  the  Cetina  and  turns  toward  snow- 
capped mountains,  ascending  in  eight  loops  with  very  sharp 
turns  but  over  an  excellent  road,  affording  us  delightful 

126 


SPALATO    TO    METKOVIC 

glimpses  of  the  foaming  green  river  far  below.  Another 
series  of  ascending  loops  with  changing  shadows  on  the 
mountain  sides  brings  us  to  the  settlement  of  Kucice.  Down 
again  to  the  Cetina,  with  snowy  Mt.  Brela  (51 17  feet) 
rising  before  us;  —  ''This  is  what  /  call  a  smiling  valley," 
asserts  Her  Ladyship,  not  always  agreeing  with  the  guide- 
book's adjectives. 

No  sooner  have  we  passed  with  due  precaution,  but  suc- 
cessfully, a  crowded  diligence,  than  we  encounter  three 
donkeys  convoyed  by  one  man.  In  vain  he  tugs,  in  vain 
he  beats;  every  one  of  those  twelve  small  feet  is  firmly 
planted;  not  one  will  budge  from  the  centre  of  the  road- 
way. Once  more  our  gallant  chauffeur  must  to  the  rescue, 
while  the  Leader  indulges  in  pat,  though  dignified,  remarks 
about  the  cussedness  of  donkeys  in  general,  and  Dalmatian 
donkeys  in  particular. 

As  we  begin  to  rise  on  another  zig-zag  course,  we  hear 
a  sound  like  distant  thunder,  and  behold  a  torrent  leaping 
over  the  shelving  rock  straight  down  one  hundred  feet  into 
the  basin  below.  It  is  the  Falls  of  the  Cetina,  or  "Velika 
Gubavica,"  as  the  guide-posts  inform  us. 

Near  the  top  of  our  last  climb,  beneath  a  village  called 
"Banja,"  a  heavily  loaded  team  blocks  the  way.  The 
driver  gesticulates  anxiously  and  pours  forth  a  torrent  of 
Slavic  syllables.  "The  road  is  so  narrow  he  cannot  turn 
out;  —  let  the  signori  have  patience,  soon  a  cross-road  will 
be  reached;  —  his  horses  cannot  increase  their  speed, 
exhausted  by  the  long  pull  up  the  mountains; — he  will  do 
the  very  best  he  can"; — and  so,  with  much  cracking  of  the 

127 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

whip  and  encouraging  calls,  he  leads  the  way  at  a  snail's 
pace,  while  we  follow  up  the  steep  grade. 

Duare  is  a  forlorn,  treeless  town  in  the  stoniest  of  stony 
regions.  Its  ancient  castle,  twice  destroyed  by  the  Venetians, 
and  as  many  times  rebuilt  by  the  Turks,  is  now  a  ruin.  Tur- 
baned  men  look  lazily  at  us  as  we  pass.  Long  processions 
of  ponies,  laden  with  rocks,  accompany  us  for  some  distance. 

But  we  are  nearly  at  the  end  of  our  cross-country  road 
from  Almissa,  up  the  Cetina  to  just  above  Duare.  At  this 
point,  two  hundred  and  seven  kilometers  from  Zara,  ac- 
cording to  the  guide-posts,  we  enter  the  national  highway 
from  Zara  to  Ragusa  over  the  Turia  Pass,  known  as  the 
''Strada  Magstra."  Soon  we  make  the  turn  and  facing  Mt. 
Brela  go  southwest  through  the  country  of  the  Karst.  This 
highway  is  more  worn  than  our  pleasant  river  road,  and 
fertile  hollows  in  the  midst  of  tumbled  boulders  are  small 
compensation  for  the  wild  scenery  of  the  Cetina  gorge.  But 
the  chauffeur,  enchanted  to  see  five  hundred  feet  of  clear 
running  ahead  of  him,  sits  firmly  in  his  seat,  grasps  the 
wheel  tightly,  and  we  fly  through  the  monotonous  landscape 
at  such  a  speed  that,  when  we  do  pass  a  small  collection  of 
huts,  the  faded  sign-post  is  one  blur. 

"Did  you  see  the  name  of  that  village?"  the  Leader 
calls  back  satirically. 

"We  did  not''  shrieks  the  chorus. 

'T  think  it  was  Grabovac,"  and  orders  are  given  to  slow 
down  for  the  villages. 

As  we  ascend  once  more,  the  Dinarian  Alps,  —  white 
with   fresh   snow,  —  appear   beside    us.     At   Zagvozd   we 

128 


SPALATO    TO    METKOVIC 

cross  a  route  which  leads  to  Imotski  and  over  the  border 
into  the  Herzegovina,  but  we  keep  to  the  right  over  a  rolling 
country  along  steep  inclines  and  hills  covered  with  a  stunted 
oak. 

Probably  this  was  part  of  the  old  Roman  highway; 
but  on  the  top  of  the  Turia  Pass  (2643  feet)  is  an  inscription 
saying  that  "under  the  Emperor  Napoleon  the  Great  and 
under  the  direction  of  the  viceroy  of  Italy  Eugene,  at  the 
time  when  Marshal  Beaumont  was  commander-in-chief 
in  Dalmatia,  this  route  was  opened  between  1806  and  1809, 
under  the  technical  management  of  General  Blancard, 
with  the  aid  of  the  engineers  Grljic  and  Zavorio,  and  that 
from  the  Croatian  frontier  to  that  of  Albania  it  is  two  hundred 
and  fifty  geographic  miles  long."  It  is  interesting  to  note 
that  the  Great  Napoleon  employed  native  engineers;  but 
we  would  have  known  this  even  if  it  had  not  been  so  stated, 
so  heavy  is  that  one  last  grade  over  the  summit.  What 
must  it  have  been  before  the  recent  improvement  ?  A  new 
dressing,  some  three  inches  thick,  of  coarse  broken  stone 
adds  to  our  difficulties. 

But  if  the  ascent  seems  high  from  the  northern  side, 
what  are  our  sensations  as  we  view  the  descent  on  the  other 
slope?  "Slope"  is  assuredly  not  the  word!  From  the 
top  we  slide  down  with  screaming  brake  in  eleven  cork- 
screw loops !  The  panorama  is  extensive  and  inspiring,  but 
after  one  glance  I  pay  little  attention  to  it;  the  automobile 
itself  demands  all  my  admiration, —  with  what  surety  we 
make  the  short  turns,  —  how  it  obeys  the  strong  clutch  of 
the  brakes!    WiU  the  tremendous  friction  set  it  afire  as  it 

129 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

has  the  machine  of  a  friend?  But  no!  It  sails  along  in 
safety  to  the  end  of  the  descent.  It  is  a  comfort  to  find 
ourselves  once  more  on  comparatively  level  ground.  To  be 
sure  we  run  up  inclines  only  to  coast  down  on  the  other 
side  over  and  over  again,  as  there  is  not  the  first  attempt 
at  grading.  But  the  road  is  hard,  if  the  pebbles  are  many, 
and  we  are  making  good  time  when — ! 

"What  tire  is  it?"  calmly  asks  Her  Ladyship;  and  we 
dismount  to  look  at  the  break. 

"What  a  fine  place  for  a  picnic!"  comments  the  Enthu- 
siast. "Here  in  a  flowery  field  under  oaks  and  feathery 
beeches.  I  know  it  is  early  for  luncheon,  but  it  is  three 
hours  since  we  started  and  I  am  hungry." 

So  the  sandwiches  are  unpacked  and  a  boulder  selected 
for  a  table,  behind  the  tangle  of  hawthorn.  We  are  safe- 
ly hidden,  when  a  group  of  charmingly  gowned  girls  gathers 
about  the  automobile. 

"I  really  ought  to  try  to  kodak  them,"  I  mumble  be- 
tween bites. 

"Oh,  they  '11  be  there  when  we  have  finished,"  declares 
Her  Ladyship,  loath  to  be  disturbed;  but  they  are  not,  for 
some  sudden  call  starts  the  whole  flock,  and  they  disappear 
toward  the  village,  while  I  look  helplessly  on.  I  do  not 
say  "I  told  you  so,"  but  I  am  sure  I  think  it;  and  through- 
out the  entire  length,  —  breadth  it  has  none,  —  of  Dal- 
matia  never  again  do  I  meet  so  characteristic,  so  brilliant, 
so  eminently  kodakable  a  company! 

However  when,  the  tire  being  nearly  ready,  we  climb 
into  the  machine  again,  some  few  stragglers  happen  along 

130 


SPALATO    TO    METKOVIC 

and  I  rather  tentatively  try  my  Slavic  sentence:  " Kako  se 
zove  ova  selo?  (What  is  the  name  of  this  village?)"  With 
a  brilliant  smile,  which  shoves  all  his  white  teeth,  one  of 
them  breaks  into  a  flood  of  language;  delightful,  instructive 
discourse,  I'll  be  bound,  but  wasted  on  us  all.  In  vain  I 
look  intelligent,  in  vain  the  Leader  tries  to  get  his  attention, 

—  with  expressive  gestures  of  appreciation  he  turns  to  me 
and  eloquently, —  I  am  sure  it  is  eloquently, —  tells  his  tale. 
Gently  I  lead  him  back,  nodding  my  head  in  agreement, 

—  but  ^^Ova  selo?  Kako  se  zove?  (This  village?  What  is 
it  called?)" 

"Roiuji  dolac,''  he  answers,  and  we  search  for  it  on  the 
map.  The  Leader,  with  small  faith,  mentions  two  villages, 
one  on  either  side  of  us,  which  the  man  motions  are  both 
far  away, —  on  both  ends  of  the  horizon,  in  fact. 

^'Da  Spalato, — u  Ragusa,''  I  reply,  thinking  that  a 
safe  answer  to  one  of  his  questions.  That  much  I  can 
manage  and  ''Da  America, ^^  a  word  which  always  brings  a 
light  to  the  eyes  wherever  it  is  mentioned ;  for  there  is  sure 
to  be  some  member  of  the  family,  some  friend  or  neighbor 
who  has  been,  or  is  going  to,  that  El  Dorado. 

Leaving  the  old  tire  by  the  roadside,  to  the  joy  of  the 
small  boy  who  evidently  expects  to  make  his  fortune  vdth  it, 
we  start  for  a  fine  blue-pointed  peak  at  the  end  of  the  valley. 
Past  shrines  and  guide-posts;  by  hills  of  juniper  and  live  oak, 
with  an  undergrowth  of  bayberry;  beneath  the  ruins  of  its 
ancient  castle  where  ivy  covers  the  donjonkeep,  we  finally 
enter  Vrgorac.  Tiny  houses  cling  to  the  hillside  like  swal- 
lows' nests,  and  the  minute  square  is  filled  with  peasants 

131 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

and  booths,  with  merchandise  and  sheep;  evidently  it  is 
an  important  market-day. 

"I  wish  I  had  a  pair  of  those  beautiful  opankal^'  I  cry 
as  we  creep  slowly  through  a  wide  street  lined  with  booths 
displaying  the  sandal  in  all  stages  of  its  development  from 
the  plain  leather  strips  cut  from  the  hide  to  the  elaborately 
finished  product. 

"Do  you  really  want  them?"  questions  the  Leader. 
"For  we  can  stop  as  well  as  not." 

"I  really  do,"  and  as  soon  as  the  car  stops,  accompanied 
by  the  Gentle  Lady  and  by  a  mob  of  interested  onlookers, 
I  begin  my  shopping  expedition.  In  walking  down  the 
narrow  street  we  inspect  carefully  all  stocks  of  merchandise, 
frequently  being  invited,  nay  begged,  by  eager  venders  to 
purchase.  The  crowd  of  country  folk  about  our  heels 
increases,  the  ones  at  the  rear  trying  to  get  nearer,  pushing 
those  in  front  almost  upon  us  in  their  desire  to  see;  but 
they  are  never  intentionally  rude. 

"This  looks  like  a  good  place,"  I  murmur;  and  stop 
before  a  booth  whose  owner  has  a  dignity  which  pleases  me. 

''Quanto,^^  1  hazard  in  Italian,  pointing  to  a  pair  of 
opanka  richly  wrought  with  cord,  but  the  man  shakes  his 
head.     "Koliko?  (How  much?)"  I  venture. 

Ah!  the  strange  lady  speaks  his  tongue.  With  a  rapid 
gesture  of  dismissal  to  the  curious  crowd,  he  motions  us 
to  enter  his  tiny  shop,  sweeps  two  stools  from  a  dark  corner, 
polishes  them  swiftly  with  a  cloth,  and  bows  deeply 
before  us,  —  talking  all  the  time  with  so  deferential  an  air, 
such  expressive  gestures  that  we  almost  understand  what  he 

132 


SPALATO    TO    METKOVIC 

says.  Now  if  the  worthy  ladies  will  sit  down  in  his  humble 
shop  and  indicate  their  pleasure.  I  point  to  the  opanka 
which  I  prefer,  then  to  my  feet.  Instantly  he  is  on  his 
knees  and  measuring,  —  such  a  pair  of  opanka  I  shall  have 
as  no  one  else  in  all  Vrgorac  can  supply;  and  with  surpris- 
ing agility  he  mounts  to  a  shelf  near  the  ceiling,  returning 
with  a  pair  of  sandals  which  he  displays  with  a  sureness  of 
appreciation  which  brings  its  own  reward.  They  are  in 
very  truth  most  beautifully  made.  He  stoops  to  compare 
them  with  my  modern  shoe  and  I  agree  with  his  disdain. 
For  picturesqueness,  for  charm  of  color,  for  artistic  design, 
there  is  no  comparison!  Poised  upon  his  delicate  finger, 
the  opanka  swing  in  tempting  nearness. 

The  keen  eyes  of  the  Slav  never  leave  my  face,  and  he 
enjoys  hugely  my  delight,  —  but  what  will  the  visitor  be 
willing  to  pay?  He  finally  makes  up  his  mind  to  ask  me 
ten  kronen  (about  $2.50).  This  seems  to  me  reasonable 
enough;  but  remembering  the  Oriental  custom,  I  look 
shocked  at  the  price,  and  with  my  fingers  indicate  eight 
kronen,  —  not  tentatively,  but  with  decision,  —  as  I  can 
see  down  the  street  the  Leader  is  growing  uneasy  at  our 
absence. 

"Very  well,"  he  assents,  pleased  with  his  bargain,  and 
throwing  the  connecting  string  of  the  sandals  over  my  arm 
we  sally  forth  followed  by  the  good  wishes  and  pleasant 
smiles  of  the  shoe  merchant. 

The  country  folk  are  immensely  pleased  at  this  tribute 
to  their  good  taste,  and  come  running  from  all  sides  toward 
the  motor  to  nod  their  heads,  show  their  own  opanka,  and 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

congratulate  me  upon  my  worthy  purchase.  I  show  it 
proudly  to  each  one  who  can  reach  me,  and  they  pour  forth 
a  chorus  of  farewells  as  we  move  slowly  off  toward  Met- 
kovic. 

Below,  as  we  mount,  the  valley  is  mostly  under  water;  on 
the  other  side  rise  the  snow-capped  mountains  of  the  Herze- 
govina. Here  we  meet  a  dignified  old  seignior,  —  a  Bosnian 
by  his  looks,  —  on  a  short  and  stubby  pony,  accompanied 
by  a  lad  on  foot.  At  sight  of  us  the  boy  turns  the  pony's 
head  quickly  away  and  attempts  to  drag  him  out  of  the  road 
up  the  steep  hillside.  With  all  his  might  the  stubby  beast 
resists,  planting  firmly  his  short  fore-legs.  The  rider  scorns 
to  interfere,  —  but  simply  keeps  his  seat.  Cluckings, 
urgings,  threats,  and  even  blows  avail  naught ;  in  exhaustion 
the  lad  desists,  —  when  the  stubborn  pony  turns  and  gives 
us  one  good  long  look,  then  scrambles  out  of  our  way  without 
a  murmur! 

We  are  now  travelling  on  the  ridge,  which  here  separates 
Dalmatia  and  the  Herzegovina,  and  the  prospects  on  both 
sides  are  full  of  interest.  Where  the  road  to  Ljubuski 
branches  to  the  left,  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  Dusina  on  the 
edge  of  one  of  the  winter  lakes. 

At  a  place  where  the  declivity  is  bare  and  sheer,  we  stop 
carefully  on  the  outside  to  permit  a  carriage  to  pass;  but  all 
caution  is  vain  at  the  next  encounter,  which  is  with  an 
animal  carrying  a  big  load  of  fire-wood  on  his  back.  With 
one  gasp  he  breaks  away  from  his  master's  grasp  and  scam- 
pers down  a  winding  path,  leaving  his  burden  scattered 
in  fragments  along  the  way.     Even  this  poor  peasant  does 

134 


SPALATO    TO    METKOVIC 

not  seem  to  blame  us,  but  rather  the  fooHshness  of  his 
ignorant  beast. 

Another  winter  lake  appears  below,  with  walnut-trees 
upon  the  edge.  "Otric-Struge,"  says  the  guide-post,  then 
two  kilometers  more  to  a  comparatively  level  stretch.  White 
terns  circle  about  us  and  the  meadow  larks  sing. 

"Borovoci-Novasela,"  and  we  leave  the  heights  and  go 
swiftly  down  to  the  edge  of  the  Narenta  delta,  where  pond 
lilies  are  a  pleasant  surprise.  As  we  cross  a  dyke,  a  man 
guiding  a  native  boat  called  a  ''trupina^^  makes  a  fine  sil- 
houette between  branches  of  poplars  and  fig-trees  bordering 
the  highway.  These  peculiar  boats,  which  the  Narentines 
use  in  paddling  among  the  reeds  and  rushes,  are  so  light  that 
they  can  be  carried  on  the  shoulder,  yet  so  strong  that  they 
are  used  for  the  transportation  of  hay,  rushes,  and  crops  of 
all  kinds.  For  shooting,  also,  they  are  in  demand,  as  from 
January  to  March  there  is  an  abundance  of  game  along 
the  Narenta,  —  moor-hen,  marsh  wood-cock,  the  wild  duck 
and  goose  in  abundance.  Eagles,  also,  are  found  there,  and 
white-headed  vultures,  pelicans,  wild  swan,  herons,  and  sea- 
gulls. A  very  Paradise  for  the  hunter!  Salmon  trout, 
up  to  twenty  kilograms,  are  caught  in  this  stream;  and  fat 
eels  of  the  Narenta,  taken  from  October  to  January,  are 
well  known,  as  are  also  the  crabs.  The  catching  of  leeches 
is  another  favorite  industry;  but  of  all  this  we  see  nothing. 
Only  the  graceful  sprays  of  pomegranates,  red  with  their 
new  growth,  dogwoods  in  glorious  flower,  and  mulberries 
shading  the  river  road,  call  for  our  enthusiastic  admiration. 

Across  the  lake  the  houses  of  Metkovic  melt  into  the 

135 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

hillside.  It  is  a  fascinating  ride  of  five  kilometers  before 
we  come  to  the  watch-tower  of  Norino,  and,  turning  sharply 
to  the  left,  follow  the  new  dyked  road  on  the  north  bank  of 
the  Narenta;  passing  the  docks  where  steamers  from  Trieste 
are  unloading,  and  the  railroad  station,  we  cross  the  river 
and  draw  up  before  the  Hotel  Austria,  Metkovic. 


136 


CHAPTER  XII 

METKOVIC  TO   RAGUSA 

A  LTHOUGH  Metkovic  was  formerly  on  the  frontier 
between  Venetian  Dalmatia  and  the  Turkish  Herzego- 
vina, the  city  itself  has  absolutely  nothing  in  the  way  of 
antiquity,  or  even  of  picturesqueness,  to  offer  to  the  tourist; 
—  but  what  she  has  she  presents  in  good  will  and  abun- 
dance. A  smoking  hot,  palatable  meal  is  not  to  be  dis- 
dained after  six  hours  of  touring.  In  fact,  this  small  hotel 
was  the  only  possible  spot  where  we  could  have  procured 
such  a  thing  the  whole  distance  between  Spalato  and  Ra- 
gusa.  Imagine,  therefore,  the  disapproval  of  the  Leader 
when,  delaying  our  luncheon,  I  rushed  down  the  street  in 
pursuit  of  a  couple  of  country  women  dressed  in  lamb's- 
wool  trousers  and  long  coats,  sleeveless  jackets  of  sheepskin, 
the  wool  side  in  and  the  outside  embroidered  in  bright 
colors,  and,  of  course,  the  universal  white  kerchief  and  flat 
bag  stuffed  with  purchases. 

A  passer-by  in  the  raggedest  outfit  I  ever  saw  looked 
curiously  at  me,  and  then  at  them,  wondering  what  I  could 
find  extraordinary  in  two  such  common-place  creatures, 
but  when  I  paused  to  "take"  a  young  befezzed  and  brilliant 
Bosnian,  stepping  jauntily  down  the  street,  in  what  we  have 
always  been  taught  to  call  a  Turkish  costume ;  —  yes,  that 
was  understandable,  and  he  looked  a  bit  enviously  at  the 
man's  gorgeous  clothes  and  general  air  of  prosperity. 

137 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

Across  the  way  from  the  hotel  is  a  small  park,  where  two 
magnificent  trees  guard  the  entrance.  On  one  side  of  it 
flows  the  Narenta  River.  In  Roman  times  this  stream, 
called  then  the  Naro,  bore  an  important  part;  for  Narona, 
one  of  the  three  capitals  of  Dalmatia,  was  situated  near  its 
mouth.  It  was  the  barrier  between  the  two  republics  of 
Venice  and  Ragusa  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  forms  now  a 
convenient  highway  for  the  transportation  of  goods  in  and 
out  of  Bosnia. 

For  nearly  fifteen  kilometers  after  leaving  Metkovic,  the 
rough  road  follows  the  contours  of  the  hillsides  above  the 
flooded  delta  of  the  Narenta,  crossing  narrow  inlets  on 
dykes.  Wherever  the  water  ends,  the  fresh,  green  growth 
begins;  young  walnut-trees  are  bursting  into  red-bronze 
leaf;  many  vineyards  are  under  water;  and  the  highway 
from  lack  of  use  is  covered  with  a  weak,  thin  grass.  On 
the  stone  walls,  near  the  village  of  Vidouje,  large  round  nets 
are  drying. 

Here^^we  begin  the  ascent  over  the  mountains  into  the 
Herzegovina.  No  wonder  the  road  was  grass-grown  below, 
nor  that  we  meet  only  pack  animals  and  no  vehicles  of  any 
kind ;  for  although  we  make  two  long  windings  we  reach  the 
top  of  the  pass  in  two  kilometers,  the  last  grade  being  fifteen 
per  cent!  Such  a  desolate  conglomeration  of  water- worn 
rock ,  such  a  tumbled  gray  sea,  suddenly  petrified !  A  billowy 
field  of  mountain  peaks  bounds  the  eastern  horizon,  and  on 
the  first  loop  downward  we  get  a  superb  view  over  the 
Adriatic,  starred  with  islands. 

The  road  continues  steep  and  stony,  with  an  economy 

138 


METKOVIC    TO    RAGUSA 

of  space  at  the  turns  not  at  all  approved  by  the  automobile. 
As  we  descend,  near  the  three  hundred  and  fifteenth  kilo- 
meter post,  we  meet  a  file  of  Herzegovinians  in  well-worn, 
picturesque  costumes,  toiling  up  the  mountain  from  the 
sea,  under  the  weight  of  many  burlap  bags  "From  Neum, 
I  suppose,"  calls  back  the  Leader.  "Soon  we  go  out  of 
the  Herzegovina  and  enter  Dalmatia  again.  For  this  is  the 
peninsula  of  Klek,  with  about  two-thirds  of  a  mile  of  coast 
and  the  tiny  port  of  Neum,  which  Ragusa,  in  171 8,  ceded  to 
Turkey  so  that  the  Venetian  territory  might  not  touch  her 
borders." 

Beautiful  black  and  white  terns  fly  before  us,  an  occa- 
sional flock  of  sheep  is  seen  guarded  by  trousered  young 
shepherdesses,  —  after  all,  it  is  a  sensible  costume  for  their 
rough,  out-of-door  life.  Below  us,  suddenly,  a  blue  estuary 
appears  in  the  landscape ;  a  mountain  point ;  a  tiny  town. 

"What  is  it?"  we  ask  in  chorus  of  the  map-holder. 

"It  is  the  Canale  di  Stagno  piccolo."  Oh,  the  musical 
Italian  syllables! 

"And  the  village  is  Hodilje,  on  the  peninsula  of  Sab- 
bioncello?"  The  fishermen's  boats  look  like  flies  on  the 
water.    We  pass  under  a  ruined  watch-tower  on  the  hilltop. 

"Probably  that  marks  the  frontier,  a  relic  of  Turkish 
domination;  now  we  are  out  of  the  Herzegovina  and  in 
Dalmatia  again,"  remarks  the  Leader. 

But  the  landscape  does  not  change,  nor  the  appearance  of 
the  people.  Two  women  pass  us,  bent  double  under  im- 
mense bundles  of  firewood;  the  two  men  accompanying 
them  carry  between  them  —  one  umbrella!    This  attitude, 

139 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

of  course,  is  a  survival  of  the  ancient  barbaric  customs,  when 
the  man  was  the  warrior,  the  hunter,  the  food  provider;  and 
the  woman  did  the  rest.  It  is  said  that  the  man  loses  the 
respect  of  his  kind  if  he  condescends  to  assist  his  wife ;  and 
that  the  wife  would  be  the  first  one  to  object,  with  horror, 
at  his  taking  a  share  in  so-called  woman's  work. 

A  beautiful,  great  bird,  as  big  as  a  crow,  bright  blue,  with 
golden  brown  and  black  striped  wings,  rises  from  the  ground 
and  sails  before  us.  "Oh,  I  do  wish  I  knew  what  it  was!" 
But  this  time  our  Leader  fails  us, —  of  ornithology  he  pre- 
tends no  knowledge. 

We  pass  a  pine  plantation,  struggling  for  existence  in 
this  rocky  waste,  and  stop  to  tie  on  more  firmly  our  extra 
cans  of  gasoline. 

"This  must  be  the  very  top!"  we  cry,  as  we  look  down 
a  sheer  thousand  feet  to  the  Canale  di  Stagno  piccolo,  with 
an  undulating  range  of  mountains  on  islands  beyond.  The 
road  takes  a  deep  fall  down,  another  high  incline,  then  a 
loop,  and  slides  down  into  a  land  of  plenty.  We  meet  men 
in  a  new  costume  of  short,  blue  baggy  trousers,  brown 
jacket  embroidered  with  red,  a  yellow  sash,  and  the  inevi- 
table crimson  cap  of  Dalmatia.  Another  cleft  in  the  hill- 
side and  another  glimpse  of  a  sea  of  islands. 

At  the  three  hundred  and  forty- second  kilometer  post, 
Slano  is  plainly  perceived  below,  amid  flourishing  vines, 
fig-trees,  and  olives.  We  do  not  enter  the  village,  but  keep 
on  our  southern  course  over  hillsides  covered  with  genista, 
over  banks  pink  with  the  campion,  or  purple  with  the 
heather.     The  road,  too,  is  better,  in  that  the  stones  are 

140 


METKOVIC    TO    RAGUSA 

smoother,  and  the  views  more  varied  and  enchanting.  At  a 
sharp  comer  we  meet  a  man  riding  on  a  horse,  and,  accom- 
panying him,  a  handsome  woman  walking!  However, 
huge  gold  beads  and  a  Maria  Theresa,  with  four  gold  rings 
on  her  large  fingers,  betoken  the  affection  of  her  husband 
as  well  as  her  lofty  social  position ! 

We  climb  another  short  incline  to  another  hilltop,  where 
the  panorama  is  magnificent ;  —  the  open  sea  with  estuaries 
well  defined;  the  heights  of  Giupana  and  Meleda;  and  the 
tiny  town  of  Mezzo,  nestling  in  a  cove  beneath  a  ruined  fort. 
Our  exclamations,  as  well  as  our  adjectives,  are  exhausted 
before  we  reach  a  sunny  slope,  planted  with  apples  and 
olives  and  hedges  of  rosemary,  —  where  from  a  terrace  above 
an  excited  voice  attempts  to  stop  us,  and  a  man  gesticulat- 
ing frantically  points  to  the  shady  vale.  More  peasants, 
all  in  the  fetching  yellow-sash  costume,  appear  upon  the 
roadside,  and  also  point  eagerly  to  the  lower  road.  Has 
there  been  an  accident  ?  Is  there  a  bridge  broken  ?  Very 
cautiously  we  crawl  down  the  hill  and  around  the  turns 
finally  to  discover  that  this  anxiety  is  not  for  us  after  all, 
but  for  one  poor  little  donkey  driven  by  a  patient,  somewhat 
dazed  lad,  who  is  the  innocent  cause  of  all  this  commotion. 
Do  they  think  that  we  are  going  to  run  over  everything 
in  our  way?  Evidently!  —  an  engine  of  destruction,  with- 
out heed  or  guidance,  running  about  the  country,  seeking 
whom  it  may  devour,  like  the  lions  of  old.  The  frightened 
lad  dismounts,  with  trembling  limbs,  and  tries  to  coax  his 
steed  out  of  the  narrow  road ;  but  the  donkey,  —  by  this 
time  fully  aroused  to  his  opportunities,  —  the  moment  he 

141 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

is  free  from  his  master's  weight,  decides  to  have  a  good 
roll;  and  roll  he  does,  kicking  up  his  heels  in  derision, — 
while  we  await  his  pleasure.  Shocked  by  such  discourtesy 
to  strangers,  the  villagers  look  apologetically  first  at  us, 
then  at  the  donkey.  Finally  His  Royal  Highness  deigns 
to  get  up,  shake  the  dust  from  his  coat  vigorously,  and  move 
on  out  of  our  way.  With  mutual  smiles,  —  our  only  lan- 
guage,—  we  exchange  congratulations  with  the  crowd  and 
continue  our  journey. 

More  olive  groves  and  the  first  carob-trees;  a  chapel 
and  a  cemetery;  a  wayside  cross,  cut  from  the  mountain 
stone;  —  and  suddenly  two  magnificent  planes  or  syca- 
mores, monarchs  of  all  the  countryside!  At  this  time  we 
do  not  know  that  these  trees,  —  forty  feet  in  circumference, 
with  a  spread  of  one  hundred  and  ninety-five  feet  in  diameter, 
—  are  one  of  the  sights  in  the  environs  of  Ragusa.  We 
experience  all  the  joy  of  discoverers.  Their  fresh  spring 
foliage  is  exquisite  in  color,  contrasting  with  the  dark 
branches  and  mottled  bark  —  and  their  enormous  size 
dwarfs  all  comparison! 

"We  are  only  about  fifteen  miles  from  Ragusa,"  the 
Leader  calls  over  his  shoulder,  "for  that  must  be  Can- 
nosa,  or  Tristeno,  as  the  maps  say."  From  here  the  high- 
way follows  the  convolutions  of  the  coast,  with  wonderful 
views  over  land  and  water  like  another  Cornice,  with  which 
it  is  well  worthy  of  comparison. 

On  through  more  olive  orchards  we  speed  with  a  glimpse 
of  Gravosa  in  the  distance.  Beyond  Orasac,  on  an  inward 
bend,  we  get  an  exquisite  picture  of  the  deep  blue  bay  of 

142 


METKOVIC    TO    RAGUSA 

Malfi,  then  sliding  down  a  hideously  steep  cun^e  we  are 
close  to  the  water's  edge  once  more.  It  is  the  Ombla 
River,  —  with  Gravosa  before  us  on  the  other  side ;  but  we 
turn  away  and  follow  its  gayly  colored  banks.  Here  we 
see  the  first  palms  and  Japanese  medlars,  with  quantities  of 
yellow  genista  and  purple  gilly  flowers. 

"Is  there  no  bridge?"  I  ask,  "or  ferry?" 

"Yes,  there  is  a  ferry  at  Mirinovo  close  by;  but  it 
is  only  four  miles  to  the  source,  and  we  may  as  well  go 
around." 

Small  villages  succeed  one  another,  or  peep  from  the 
wooded  hillside.  Here  is  midsummer,  indeed,  with  roses 
and  elder  in  blossom;  artichokes  in  tiny  gardens  and  our 
own  familiar  perennials  in  abundance ;  for  this  is  the  valley 
of  the  Ombla,  a  favorite  spot  with  nature  lovers.  The 
Ombla,  called  by  the  Greeks  Arione,  is  supposed  to  be  a 
continuation  of  the  Trebinjcica  River  "which  becomes 
subterranean  some  two  and  a  half  hours'  journey  away  in 
the  Herzegovina."     (F.  H.  Jackson.) 

"All  these  'sources'  are  alike,"  announces  Her  Ladyship 
calmly.  "A  mass  of  water  boils  out  of  a  precipice."  So 
we  do  not  dismount  to  see  the  Ombla's  exit  or  entrance  into 
the  outer  air.  We  only  receive  an  impression  of  an  immense 
cliff  of  stratified  limestone,  bare  and  bleak,  above  a  smiling 
valley;  a  big  building  which  we  afterward  learn  is  the  pump- 
ing station  for  the  aqueduct  supplying  Ragusa;  and  a  tiny 
chapel;  —  then  we  turn  again  toward  the  sea,  and  soon 
reach  the  harbor  of  Ragusa,  called  Gravosa. 

Large  steamers  find  a  shelter  in  this  protected  port,  and 

143 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

here  the  railroad  ends,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  gate  of 
the  city. 

The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  sea,  birds  are  singing  their 
vesper  hymns,  the  solemn  sound  of  monastery  bells  comes 
clearly  to  our  ears,  work  is  ending,  rest  beginning,  in  the 
tired  town,  as  we  climb  the  last  hill  and  speed  along  the 
fine  ''Bella  Vista,"  in  the  soft  twilight,  to  our  much-longed- 
for  hotel. 

The  Imperial  is  in  the  midst  of  splendid  palms  and 
pines,  magnolias  and  bamboo.  Masses  of  bridal  wreath  and 
multiflora  roses,  rich  blue  iris  and  forget-me-nots,  fill  its 
charming  garden  An  arbor  of  wistaria,  in  all  the  delicate 
beauty  of  its  violet  blooms,  stretches  its  long  length  beneath 
our  windows ,  the  sea  tosses  restlessly  in  the  distance  below 
an  ancient  fortress;  and  close  beside  us  rises  the  walled 
city  itself,  mysterious  and  fascinating  in  the  early  dusk. 


144 


CHAPTER  XIII 

RAGUSA 

O  AGUSA  was  the  crowning  point  of  our  Dalmatian 
experiences.  Never  did  I  appreciate  the  beauty  of 
the  open  sea  until  I  came  to  this  stronghold  of  the  Adriatic, 
this  proud  and  ancient  city,  this  wonderful  survival  of 
mediaeval  times.  Zara,  Sebenico,  Spalato,  Ragusa,  each 
has  its  own  peculiar  charm,  the  interest  increasing  as  we  go 
southward.  Zara,  complete  in  itself,  a  tiny  walled  city  on  a 
narrow  peninsula  shut  in  by  islands ;  Sebenico  and  Spalato 
built  on  large  bays  with  more  extended  outlooks;  but  of 
them  all  Ragusa  alone  basks  in  the  freedom  of  the  open  sea. 
Great  waves  dash  against  her  worn  rock  fortress,  and  no 
islands  shelter  her  from  the  Adriatic's  storms.  To  be  sure, 
there  are  the  "Pettini,"  sharp,  teeth-like  rocks,  projecting 
just  enough  to  warn  the  sailor  where  hidden  danger  lurks; 
and  Lacroma,  a  dome-like  wooded  islet,  crowned  by  an  old 
fort,  but  on  every  side  the  sea  stretches  away  to  meet  the  sky 
in  limitless  horizon.  One  sees  the  faint  smoke  of  far-away 
steamers,  or  catches  the  gleam  of  snowy  sails  against  the 
blue,  and  longs  to  follow  the  white-winged  gulls  "over  the 
world  and  far  away." 

How  brilliantly  the  sun  shone  on  that  first  morning! 
We  wandered  to  the  little  park  close  by.  It  is  a  charming 
combination  of  rocky  cliffs  above  a  crystal  sea,  —  grass- 
grown    terraces   planted    with    resinous   pines    and    aloes, 

145 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

yellow  gorse  and  endless  small  wild  flowers  just  beginning 
to  blossom,  lupines  and  vetches  and  pittosporum  of  sweet- 
est fragrance.  Ivy  clings  to  the  old  wall  and  barred  gate 
that  shuts  ofiF  a  convent  garden,  where  white-coiffed  nuns 
walk  in  the  formal  paths.  The  wistaria  flaunts  its  graceful 
banners,  spirea  von  Houttei  sends  forth  its  cascade-like 
branches  of  bridal  blossoms,  and  the  pink  sprays  of  the 
tamarisk  make  a  huge  bouquet  in  the  green  tangle. 

The  "plain  people"  appreciate  well  this  flowering  beauty; 
they,  too,  wander  in  this,  their  own  fair  garden ;  they  stop  to 
admire  the  sweet-smelling  shrubs  and  gay  borders  and 
fold  their  tired  hands  contentedly,  as  they  sit  here  in 
the  cool  of  evening,  looking  out  at  the  glory  of  sea  and 
sky. 

Love  of  nature  is  universal  and  forms  a  bond  of  fellow- 
ship between  all  nations.  I  feel  a  glow  of  friendliness  for 
the  driver  of  the  little  diligence,  which  plods  between  Gravosa 
and  the  city,  and  has  its  stand  under  the  mulberries  at  the 
Porta  Pile;  for  on  one  of  his  late  "runs"  he  brought  a  big 
bundle  of  spirea  and  when  the  sun  had  set  decked  his 
horses'  bridles  with  the  white  branches.  These  low,  green 
stages,  little  more  than  wagons,  drawn  by  three  bony  horses, 
and  always  filled  with  a  gay  crowd  of  soldiers  and  peasants, 
are  a  feature  which  I  hope  will  not  soon  be  replaced  by  the 
ubiquitous  tram.  The  driver,  with  one  leg  thrown  over  his 
knee,  chats  sociably  with  the  nearest  passengers. 

I  really  need  not  go  outside  for  amusement,  for  under 
my  window  passes  a  constant  procession  from  the  fascinat- 
ing old  city  gate  to  the  surrounding  country.     Occasionally 

146 


THK    GREEN    OMXI13US    TO    GRAVOSA 
THE    PORTA    PILE,    RAGUSA 


^^^Hl:$      i^H 

■|^H 

^^K  ^fl 

H^^^^^^H 

^V'-fl 

H 

jjH 

^'  '-|^^^H 

liltr 

^jB 

THE    STRIPS    1)1"    STRKF/rS 
A   TVFICAL   SHOf    OX    TWE    STRADONE,    RAGUSA 


RAGUSA 

one  sees  an  open  landau,  with  red-fezzed  gentlemen  gazing 
about,  as  strangers  are  wont  to  do. 

There  is  great  variety  in  the  costumes  and  they  are  pret- 
tier than  those  of  the  north.  The  skirts  are  dark  wool  and 
finely  plaited.  The  aprons  vary,  and  the  fluted  and  fringed 
white  kerchiefs  are  worn  either  tied  under  the  chin  or  looped 
up  on  top  of  the  head.  Neither  are  the  gold  filigree  beads 
allowed  to  hide  their  elegance;  but,  strung  on  a  plain  cord, 
which  is  supposed  to  lie  snugly  in  the  folds  of  the  fichu  at 
the  back,  they  begin  just  at  the  collarbone  in  front  and  fall 
low  on  the  bosom. 

An  officer  in  the  pale  blue  uniform  of  the  Austrian 
cavalry  goes  slowly  by  on  his  well-groomed  horse.  A 
young  woman  in  a  dark  stuff  gown,  red  and  white  checked 
apron,  green  kerchief,  and  carrying  one  of  the  flat  em- 
broidered bags  of  the  country,  accompanies  a  child  of  six, 
perhaps  to  school,  for  there  is  a  fine  new  school-house 
on  the  hill.  A  Dominican  friar,  his  white  frock  floating 
about  him;  a  flock  of  small  school-children  with  an  old 
servant  in  their  midst ;  a  man  bent  double  under  a  load  of 
firewood;  three  more  officers  gravely  walking  their  horses 
down  the  long  hill;  a  pretty  kerchiefed  Ragusan;  an  un- 
mistakably English  tourist  in  knickers,  with  his  red  guide- 
book; three  women,  each  carrying  a  brilliant-hued  bundle 
on  her  head,  like  walking  poppies;  a  squad  of  cavalry;  — 

"There  must  be  a  parade  somewhere!  Do  they  cele- 
brate the  file  of  St.  Peter  Martyr?"  I  ask  wonderingly. 
More  gayly  dressed  women,  one  bearing  a  large,  round 
basket  surmounted  by  a  full-sized  broom,  deftly  balanced 

147 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

on  her  head !    And  so  the  kaleidoscopic  panorama  goes  on 
ad  lihitum. 

I  am  aroused  from  my  absorption  by  the  suggestive 
tones  of  the  Leader,  saying:  '* Suppose  we  get  just  an 
impression  of  the  old  town  to-day,  and  later  examine  it  in 
detail." 

It  is  delightful  to  feel  that  we  have  ample  time  for  our 
sight-seeing;  no  steamer  leaving  at  a  fixed  day  and  hour, 
no  train  holding  us  to  rigid  schedule.  We  may  even  do 
nothing  at  all,  if  we  wish;  for  no  limit  has  been  set  to  our 
stay  in  Ragusa,  and  the  motor  is  comfortably  installed 
beneath  the  shelter  of  its  own  curtains  beside  the  hotel  door. 
There  it  stands  in  perfect  safety  during  our  entire  stay. 

Through  the  pretty  hotel  garden  and  mulberry-shaded 
square  by  the  Post  Office,  we  reach  the  bridge  over  the  old 
moat!  What  a  charming  picture  between  the  poplar-trees 
looking  up  at  the  city  walls  and  towers  against  the  barren 
slopes  of  Mt.  Sergio!  Before  us  stands  the  Porta  Pile, 
evidently  a  mere  gateway  for  the  many  citizens  going  in 
both  directions;  but  for  us,  —  a  brilliant,  sun-lit  frame  for 
ever-changing  scenes.  Within,  a  sharp  elbow  leads  to 
the  inner  gate,  and  we  are  at  once  in  the  Stradone,  the  main 
and  only  wide  street  in  the  city. 

"This  was  at  one  time  a  marshy  canal,"  relates  the 
Leader,  "separating  the  original  Roman  city  from  a  rural 
colony  of  Bosnians  settled  on  the  slopes  of  Mt.  Sergio. 
But  as  the  city  grew,  the  two  factions  came  together,  the 
canal  was  filled  up,  and  a  line  of  fortifications  built  about 
the  whole,  much  as  we  see  it  to-day.     The  patron  saint  of 

148 


RAGUSA 

the  Slavic  colony  was  Sergius,  of  the  Latin  colony  Bacchus, 
and  neither  being  willing  to  accept  the  guardian  saint  of 
the  other,  they  agreed  to  choose  a  new  one.  At  this  oppor- 
tune moment  a  pilgrim  arrived  from  Armenia,  bearing  the 
head  of  St.  Blaise,  or  Biagio,  an  Asiatic  bishop.  While 
resting  at  Ragusa  the  saint  appeared  in  a  dream  warning 
the  Ragusans  of  an  impending  attack  by  the  Venetians. 
In  gratitude  for  this  kindly  interest,  the  Ragusans  adopted 
the  good  bishop  as  their  future  protector.  Did  n't  you  see 
his  statue  over  the  gate  as  we  came  through?  There  is 
another,  very  curious  one,  of  silver  in  the  church  dedicated 
to  him  and  in  the  Treasury  of  the  Duomo  Jackson 
speaks  of  a  wonderful  reliquary  containing  his  skull." 
I  am  only  half  listening,  for  the  passers-by  arc  so  delightful 
to  watch,  men  and  women  in  such  a  brave  and  bright 
array. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  steep  strips  of  streets!"  exclaims 
the  Enthusiast,  pausing  before  a  long  series  of  steps  be- 
tween tall  buildings. 

"And  here  is  another!"  cries  Her  Ladyship,  from  a 
corner  near  by. 

Clothes-lines  stretch  from  window  across  to  window; 
the  owners  on  the  opposite  balconies  could  touch  hands,  I 
believe;  while  in  this  crystal  atmosphere  the  frowning 
fortress  on  the  mountain-top  seems  to  rise  straight  up  from 
the  last  house.  The  shops  are  filled  with  silver  ornaments 
and  embroideries,  such  as  the  natives  love,  and  we  saunter 
on  very  slowly,  enjoying  the  fresh,  first  impression  of  this 
quaint  old  town. 

149 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

''Did  you  notice  that  big  Oriental-looking  fountain  just 
inside  the  gate?"  the  Leader  asks. 

"No,  the  sun  was  so  hot  I  was  hunting  for  a  shady 
spot." 

"There  should  be  a  cloister  near  here,"  he  answers, — 
following  the  new  lead,  —  and  we  turn  aside  where  a  sign 
reads  "Ljecarnica,  Farmacia,  Apotheke,"  with  an  index 
hand. 

A  charming  spot,  indeed,  is  this  old  cloister  of  the  Fran- 
ciscans, with  its  double  columns  supporting  narrow  arches, 
its  fifteenth  century  fountain  between  long  stone  benches, 
and  the  roses!  —  only  the  orange-tree  in  the  corner  opposite 
vies  with  them  for  fragrance,  while  the  palms'  sharp  fingers 
cast  black  shadows  on  the  friars'  walk. 

"I  am  sure  you  have  shown  us  the  most  enchanting  spot 
in  Ragusa";  but  the  Leader  only  smiles  mysteriously  and 
bids  us  wait  and  see. 

On  one  side  of  the  cloister  is  the  famous  Franciscan 
Farmacia,  where  the  shelves  are  still  filled  with  rare  blue  jars 
and  vases,  —  an  inheritance  from  the  Middle  Ages,  for  this 
apothecary  shop,  founded  in  1 307,  is  one  of  the  three  oldest 
in  Europe. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  Stradone  is  the  fifteenth  century 
clock  tower;  and  beside  it  stands  La  Sponza,  the  ancient 
mint  and  custom  house,  a  wonderfully  charming  building, 
a  Venetian  jagade  with  a  Renaissance  loggia,  and  a  double 
cloister  about  its  small  cortile,  where  still  the  contadini 
gather  to  dispute  over  the  weights  and  taxes.  This  constant 
presence  of  the  gayly  dressed  country  folk  adds  so  much  to 

150 


RAGUSA 

the  charm  of  Ragusa,  that  sometimes  architectural  details 
are  overlooked. 

But  for  the  loveliness  of  the  Rector's  Palace,  a  short  dis- 
tance beyond  the  Custom  House,  no  adjectives  are  adequate. 
The  massive  columns,  the  richly  carved  capitals,  supporting 
graceful  arches,  are  but  an  introduction  to  the  splendid 
entrance,  —  the  Porta  della  Caritk,  flanked  by  long,  arcaded 
benches  of  marble;  and  the  dignified  double  cloister,  with 
its  comparatively  modern  stairway;  and  the  details,  —  it 
is  not  enough  to  revel  in  the  sensuous  beauty  of  the  whole, 
the  perfect  proportions,  the  creamy  color,  the  lights  and 
shadows  in  its  deep  reveals.  Surely  those  curious  pictured 
scenes  upon  Onofrio's  capitals,  the  exquisite  finish  of  those 
leaves  and  flowers,  veritable  gems  of  Gothic  sculpture, 
must  not  be  overlooked. 

"It  was  built  toward  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century," 
broke  in  the  voice  of  the  Leader,  "  by  the  Neapolitan  Onofrio 
de  La  Cava,  assisted  by  Michelozzo  and  Georgio  Orsini,  who 
did  the  cathedral  at  Sebenico.  You  remember  Michelozzo 
designed  the  Palazzo  Riccardi  in  Florence  and  the  Library 
of  San  Georgio  Maggiore  in  Venice." 

No  wonder  it  is  so  peculiarly  satisfying  with  that  com- 
bination of  architects  for  its  sponsors.  Every  day  during 
our  stay  in  Ragusa  we  linger  a  while  before  it,  and  every 
day  at  some  new  viewpoint  discover  more  of  its  lasting 
beauty. 

The  Duomo,  built  during  this  same  period,  was  complete- 
ly destroyed  by  the  earthquake  of  1667,  so  that  this  new  (?) 
cathedral  contains  nothing  to  compare  in  interest  with  its 

151 


MOTORING    IN   THE    BALKANS 

famous  Treasury.  On  Wednesday  mornings  at  eleven  it  is 
shown,  and  shortly  before  that  hour  groups  of  tourists,  with 
some  few  residents,  begin  to  assemble.  After  the  massive 
door  has  been  unlocked  with  its  three  keys  and  the  bars  let 
down,  the  priest  and  his  two  assistants  take  their  places 
within  and  set  before  the  astonished  gaze  of  the  people 
gathered  at  the  railing,  silver  and  gold  work  with  inlays  of 
precious  stones  and  rare  enamels,  until  they  are  dazzled  with 
the  quantity  and  variety  of  design.  Most  of  the  objects 
appear  to  be  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries, 
although  possibly  made  at  a  later  date.  There  are  several 
monstrances,  two  elaborate  processional  crosses,  and  many 
curious  thorax-reliquaries,  besides  one  supporting  the  jaw 
of  St.  Stephen  of  Hungary,  interesting  as  an  example  of  early 
Hungarian  silversmiths'  work.  With  business-like  despatch, 
other  reliquaries  of  wrought  silver  representing  in  natural 
size  arms  and  other  portions  of  the  human  body  are  sub- 
mitted to  our  necessarily  casual  inspection  and  then  not  a 
tenth  part  have  left  their  cases  when  the  priest  for  crowning 
effect,  produces  the  reliquary  containing  the  skull  of  St. 
Biagio,  the  patron  saint  of  the  city,  the  gem  of  the  col- 
lection. This  is  a  truly  marvellous  work  of  art,  with  its 
twenty-four  medallions  of  saints,  —  Byzantine  in  style,  and 
probably  of  the  twelfth  century;  these  are  surrounded  by 
the  most  exquisite  scrolls  and  flowers  and  leaves  in  enamel  of 
astonishing  delicacy  and  richness.  During  his  close  exami- 
nation Mr.  Jackson  discovered  that  the  date  of  this  latter 
work  was  1694. 

Truly  many  hours  could  be  profitably  spent  upon  this 

152 


RAGUSA 

precious  relic  alone,  but  the  most  curious  piece  of  silver- 
smiths' art  is  yet  to  come.  When  the  ewer  is  taken  from 
its  case  I  wonder  why  that  bunch  of  dried  grass  is  allowed 
to  remain  in  it,  but  learn  only  by  actually  touching  it  that  it 
is  silver  imitation.  This  ewer  and  basin  were,  they  told  us, 
intended  as  a  present  from  the  Ragusans  to  the  Hungarian 
king,  Mathias  Corvinus;  but  he  dying  before  the  ambas- 
sadors reached  him,  it  was  brought  back  to  their  own  city 
again.  Mr.  Jackson  disputes  this  date,  and  believes  that 
it  belongs  to  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century;  but,  in  any 
case,  it  bears  upon  its  surface  an  extraordinarily  realistic 
representation  of  eels  and  lizards,  ferns,  flowers,  and  reeds, 
stained  and  modelled  with  a  fidelity  to  nature  nothing  short 
of  marvellous. 

''Suppose  we  have  a  brisk  walk  this  morning,"  suggested 
Her  Ladyship,  one  cool,  clear  day;  and  instantly  the  Leader 
rose  to  the  occasion. 

''Why  not  to  San  Giacomo?  It  ought  to  be  attractive 
all  the  way." 

So  we  set  out.  Through  the  Porta  Pile,  —  always  with 
renewed  delight,  —  along  the  Corso,  by  the  Dogana  and  the 
Roman  stairs  leading  to  the  church  of  San  Domenico,  under 
the  triple  archway  of  the  Porta  Ploce,  we  follow  the  ancient 
route  above  the  sea.  We  do  try  to  walk  briskly,  but  hotter 
and  hotter  grows  the  sun,  and  more  and  more  dusty  the 
road.  Between  high  walls,  as  in  Italian  suburbs,  it  leads 
us  until  we  reach  scattered  villas,  and  can  look  down  into 
their  lovely  gardens.  When  we  arrive  at  San  Giacomo 
degli  Olivi,  we  find  only  an  abandoned  and  bolted  building; 

^53 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

but  the  views  of  Ragusa  between  the  cypress  trees,  beyond 
the  aloe  blossoms,  against  the  sparkling  sea,  —  with  La- 
croma  as  a  pendant  jewel,  —  well  repay  us. 

A  group  of  Ragusan  misses  are  sketching  the  picturesque 
belfry  of  the  old  monastery,  with  its  attendant  sycamores 
against  the  blue  green  of  the  mountain-side.  In  their  short 
walking  suits,  shirt  waists,  and  sailor  hats,  they  seem  like 
well-bred  English  girls;  indeed,  their  low  voices,  gentle 
manners,  their  interest  in  their  work,  and  attention  to  the 
criticisms  of  their  young  teacher,  set  an  example  for  the 
school-girl  of  any  country. 

Returning  from  San  Giacomo,  we  stop  at  the  Dominican 
monastery  to  rest  a  bit  within  its  lovely  cloister.  A  tiny 
balcony,  high  up  against  the  wall,  has  the  utmost  fascination 
for  me.  Does  the  Father  Superior  look  from  it  over  the 
blue  sea  and  refresh  his  soul  with  glimpses  of  a  heaven  on 
earth,  —  or  is  it  merely  a  gallery  from  which  to  announce 
great  tidings.  Beneath  the  willow  trees  are  pots  of  mar- 
guerites and  lilies;  low  evergreens  and  oranges  in  bloom; 
an  open  flagged  space  enclosing  a  stately  well;  and  all 
around,  the  Gothic  arches  with  their  strange  interlaced 
circles  casting  cool  shadows  upon  the  quiet  walk. 


154 


CHAPTER  XIV 
RAGUSA  —  LACROMA  —  LAPAD 

"L-TAVING  been  told  that  Tuesday  is  market-day  at 
Ragusa,  I  start  out  early  in  the  morning  toward  the 
square  where  fruits  and  vegetables  are  offered  for  sale. 
There  is  no  such  picturesque  crowd  as  at  Zara  on 
Good  Friday,  but  here  and  there  roaming  about  the 
narrow  streets  are  country  women,  brave  in  rich  costumes, 
jewelled  belts,  and  dangling  head-dresses.  These  are 
the  Herzegovinians.  One,  so  well  dressed  that  I  hesitate 
to  ask  her  if  she  is  willing  to  be  photographed,  tosses 
her  head  and  moves  her  fingers,  unmistakably  demanding 
money. 

"One  kronen." 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Well,  sixty  heller."  By  this  time  another  splendidly 
attired  specimen  has  appeared  —  from  the  ground  for  all  I 
can  see. 

"One  kronen  for  the  two,"  I  bargain  from  sheer  force 
of  habit. 

"No,  sixty  for  me  and  sixty  for  her  first!"  What  a  sad 
comment  on  her  experiences  with  another  race  I 

When  I  have  given  the  promised  sums  they  stand  like 
statues  and  will  so  stand  by  the  hour  if  desired.  Every 
trace  of  animation  leaves  their  faces.     In  vain  I  say  ''Parla! 

155 


MOTORING   IN    THE    BALKANS 

Guarda!''^  —  they  will  not  be  diverted  from  their  grim 
purpose.  They  are  having  their  pictures  taken,  and  every 
nerv-e  and  muscle  betokens  it ! 

The  white  lace  veils  which  the  women  wear  fastened  with 
filigree  pins  and  tassels  to  their  tiny  caps,  or  beaded  fillets, 
and  floating  over  their  shoulders,  are  very  effective.  I  quite 
sympathize  with  an  English  tourist,  who  is  apparently 
attempting  to  persuade  one  of  the  women  to  sell  him  some- 
thing. She  looks  puzzled  and  shakes  her  head,  but  later 
on  from  a  tiny  shop  comes  loud  and  clear  in  the  up-and- 
down  intonations  of  the  Cockney;  "No,  I  want  a  female 
costume." 

The  harbor  of  Ragusa,  Porto  Casson,  is  a  delightful 
place  to  linger.  Here  are  to  be  seen  the  large  fishing-boats, 
—  with  their  curious  night  lanterns  for  attracting  sardines, — 
quaint  barks  from  neighboring  lands,  ships  from  distant 
ports,  and  occasionally  a  steamer  or  two.  Often  a  new 
costume  may  reward  one,  although  the  familiar  attire  is 
varied  enough  always  to  delight  the  eye. 

"Do  look,"  cries  the  Enthusiast,  "on  the  deck  of  that 
steamer  by  the  dock,"  and  she  struggles  to  refrain  from 
pointing  out  a  pretty  woman,  dressed  in  full  Turkish  trous- 
ers, long  maroon  velvet  coat,  trimmed  with  silver  braid, 
and  a  white  kerchief  on  her  head.  Instead  of  sittmg  cross- 
legged  on  the  floor  she  is  evidently  very  comfortable  upon  the 
bench,  and  instead  of  peering  from  behind  a  veil  she  is 
openly  smoking  a  cigarette  and  chatting  with  two  men  in  a 
truly  sociable  manner. 

"Is  this  the  new  woman  of  Turkey?"  I  ask  Her  Lady- 

156 


HKK/.KC.iiMM.W    \\(»Mi:\    SiK  H'riXl'.    i\    liAC.USA 


RAGUSA  —  LACROMA  —  LAPAD 

ship,  but  we  discover  later  that  even  the  Christians  wear 
those  abominably  ugly  full  trousers  in  the  Herzegovina. 

From  this  same  harbor  goes  forth  to  Lacroma  a  small 
naphtha  launch  none  too  clean  or  comfortable.  Before  we 
quite  realize  what  we  have  attempted,  one  silvery  still  day 
we  embark  on  it  for  the  lovely  islet.  Her  Ladyship  makes 
no  boast  of  seaworthiness,  and  the  Enthusiast  becomes  limp 
at  the  first  deep  swell,  but  the  Leader  encourages  us  by 
pointing  out  the  short  distance  and  endeavors  to  distract  iK 
by  tales  of  the  isle  itself.  We  finally,  —  it  is  only  in  reality 
about  twenty  minutes,  —  approach  close  to  the  wooded 
rocks,  but  see  no  sign  of  port,  only  a  white  cross,  which 
marks  the  shipwreck  of  an  Austrian  man-of-war  in  1859. 

Slowly  we  sail  on.  The  soft  south  breeze  blows  gently, 
the  sea  is  transparent,  reflecting  the  mossy  cliffs  and  the 
wind-tossed  forests.  Above  us  looms  an  ancient  fort,  and 
against  a  tangle  of  green  wildness  shines  a  square  campanile. 
This  was  at  one  time  the  home  of  Crown  Prince  Rudolf,  and 
before  him  of  MaximiHan  of  Mexico,  who  made  from  the 
old  monastery  of  San  Marco  a  royal  cMteau  surrounded  by 
splendid  gardens.  Now  it  is  back  in  the  service  of  the 
church  once  more,  being  occupied  by  the  Dominicans. 

Behind  us  lies  Ragusa,  her  round  towers  by  the  water, 
her  walls  and  ancient  fortifications  on  the  mountain-side, 
and  the  grassy  banks  on  Sergius'  very  top  denoting  the 
modern  fort. 

Lacroma  itself  is  a  delight.  We  climb  by  shady  paths 
strewn  with  rosemary  and  gorse  to  the  monastery  court. 
Then  from  the  orange  garden  and  tangle  of  roses,  from  the 

157 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

palms  and  aloes,  by  successive  terraces  we  descend  to  a 
charming  viewpoint  overlooking  the  distant  city  and  the  sea. 

But  the  great  joy  of  Lacroma  is  her  wealth  of  wild 
flowers.  Under  the  ilex  forest,  yellow  and  purple,  blue  and 
ivory,  they  star  the  dusky  ground.  One  exquisite  blossom 
(Cistus  Monspeliensis)  growing  in  great  profusion  resembles 
a  Cherokee  rose.  It  is  enough  to  make  the  studious  and 
would-be  intelligent  Enthusiast  cry  out  with  despair,  for  all 
of  this  flora  belongs  to  another  botany  than  hers,  and  to  be 
denied  even  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  these  fair  denizens 
of  the  forest  is  a  real  trial.  The  air  is  sweet  with  pine  and 
locust  and  orange  blossom.  We  sit  in  the  cool  shelter  of 
the  twisted  trees  and  watch  the  glistening  sea. 

"I  believe  the  wind  has  risen,"  remarks  Her  Ladyship, 
scanning  the  leaping  wavelets  anxiously. 

"You  must  not  exert  your  imagination  so  much,"  mock- 
ingly replies  her  companion.  "Let  me  know  when  you  see 
the  launch,"  and  so  saying,  he  saunters  off  toward  the  beach. 
But  it  does  not  have  to  be  announced ;  we  hear  it  from  afar 
before  it  turns  the  comer  of  the  rocky  bluff,  and  hurry  to 
the  tiny  pier.  Silently  we  take  our  seats  with  one  or  two 
other  passengers  and  begin  our  voyage  homewards.  The 
wind  has  risen,  nothing  to  disturb  a  larger  craft,  but  the 
short,  choppy  sea  tosses  our  small  launch  in  horrid,  jumping 
motions. 

*Tt  is  not  far,  you  know,"  the  Enthusiast  comforts,  and 
offers  licorice  —  her  favorite  panacea  —  to  her  pale  com- 
patriot. 

A  smell  of  naphtha  pervades  the  warm  air.    There  is  no 

158 


RAGUSA  —  LACROMA—  LAPAD 

escaping  from  its  sickening  fumes,  and  still  the  towers  of 
Ragusa  loom  afar. 

"It  does  not  seem  as  if  we  made  any  headway  at  ail," 
I  cry  at  last.  "How  much  longer  are  we  going  to  be,  do  you 
suppose  ?    Is  n't  it  getting  worse  ?  " 

"We  are  passing  the  most  exposed  part  now,"  counsels 
the  Leader.  "Look,  the  sea  is  quite  smooth  over  there." 
And  soon  we  enter  the  region  of  calm  and  thankfully  set 
our  feet  once  more  on  terra  firma. 

"I  think  I  must  be  a  hoodoo,"  cries  Her  Ladyship  that 
evening  when,  somewhat  strengthened  by  an  excellent 
dinner,  she  has  recovered  her  usual  good  spirits,  "but  I 
don't  mean  to  go  to  any  more  islands." 

"We  will  take  the  islands  some  other  time  in  a  big  boat," 
is  her  lord's  reply. 

How  completely  has  Ragusa  preserved  her  mediseval 
aspect!  "From  whatever  side  you  regard  her,  she  appears 
surrounded  by  a  chain  of  frowning  towers  and  girt  by  mighty 
walls,  over  which  little  more  than  the  towers  of  the  church 
can  be  seen,  while  toward  the  sea  she  presents  nothing  but 
a  line  of  walls  and  towers,  crowning  the  verge  of  an  inacces- 
sible precipice."  One  may  walk  around  the  city  on  these 
walls,  thus  getting  an  excellent  idea  of  the  sixteenth  century 
system  of  defence,  besides  many  glimpses  into  the  daily  life 
of  the  present  time.  It  is  not  a  fatiguing  promenade,  al- 
though there  are  many  short  flights  of  steps,  as  within  these 
walls  Ragusa  measures  only  about  450  yards  square. 

Each  town  in  Dalmatia  seems  to  have  led  its  own  in- 
dividual life,   with  nothing  but  hostility  for  its  neighbor. 

159 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

Indeed,  "  Dalmatia,  though  nominally  a  kingdom,  has  never 
had  any  independent  national  existence."  .  .  .  It  is  not 
so  much  a  distinct  country  as  a  convenient  geographical 
expression."  Even  its  inhabitants  are  not  usually  known 
as  Dalmatians,  but  by  the  part  of  the  country  from  which 
they  come.  As  an  Austrian  Province,  it  has  representation 
in  the  parliament  of  Vienna. 

This  fascinating  region  deserves  to  be  better  known  and 
its  excellent  highways  more  frequently  traversed.  I  say 
"excellent"  from  an  American  rather  than  from  a  French 
standpoint.  They  are  certainly  superior  to  the  Spanish  and 
are  fully  equal  to  the  average  Italian  roads. 

No  one  can  admire  the  sea  more  than  I, —  its  majesty,  its 
color,  its  ever-changing  aspects;  my  enthusiasm  is  boundless 
—  when  contemplating  it  from  dry  land ;  but  when  on  its 
fickle  surface,  my  mind,  indeed,  my  whole  being,  is  so  fully 
preoccupied  that  any  appreciation  is  impossible.  Viewing 
a  country  from  the  sea  only,  one  may  get  marvellous  color- 
effects  and  charming  pictures,  but  often  a  false  impression. 
For  instance,  one  author  wrote  that  the  interior  of  Dalmatia 
must  be  hke  the  desert  of  Sahara.  Now,  nothing  could  be 
further  from  the  truth.  These  ashen,  limestone  peaks  or 
boulder-covered  plains,  alternating  with  green  plateaus  and 
valleys,  are  in  striking  contrast  with  the  brown-stone  moun- 
tains or  the  apricot-colored  sand  on  the  rolling  surface  of 
the  great  Sahara  Desert. 

In  no  way  is  the  geographical  conformation  of  a  coun- 
try so  forcibly  impressed  upon  one  as  in  automobiling. 
Plains  and  valleys,  gorges,  hills  and  mountain  ranges,  river 

1 60 


RAGUSA-LACROMA-LAPAD 

courses,  lakes  and  waterfalls,  with  their  characteristics  and 
relations  to  one  another,  are  learned  in  a  manner  not  soon 
forgotten.  And  by  no  other  means  can  one  come  in  such 
direct  contact  with  the  people  of  a  country  busy  about  their 
daily  tasks. 

Toward  sunset  is  the  time  to  visit  Lapad,  a  wooded  prom- 
ontory jutting  into  the  sea  westward  from  Gravosa.  Leav- 
ing the  carriage  at  the  gate  of  the  Villa  Bravacic,  we  begin 
climbing  the  rough,  steep  paths  made  by  flocks  of  sheep, 
leading  to  the  summit  of  Mt.  Petka.  A  shy  young  shep- 
herdess greets  us  pleasantly,  as  we  toil  upward,  and  reas- 
sures us  as  to  the  good  intentions  of  her  barking  dog. 
"Gobj,  Gobj,"  she  calls,  in  successive  intonations  of  com- 
mand and  commendation.  She  is  busy  with  some  embroid- 
ery, instead  of  the  usual  knitting,  but  hardly  glances  at  it  as 
she  talks.  Of  course  we  do  not  know  one  word  of  her 
Slavic  speech,  but  her  meaning  some  way  penetrates  fully 
to  our  understanding. 

After  this  we  meet  no  one,  no  habitation  is  to  be  seen, 
nothing  but  shrubby  growth  of  junipers  and  tangled  sprays 
of  greenbrier  and  the  sharp,  stiff  leaf  of  a  kind  of  bushy 
smilax  under  the  twisted  pines.  One  of  our  number  — 
far  be  it  from  me  to  divulge  which  one  —  weakens  after 
half  an  hour  of  scrambling  over  loose  pebbles,  up  steps 
formed  of  the  knotted  roots  of  ancient  trees,  through  shut-in 
forests,  peeking  in  vain  at  each  cork-screw  turn  to  get  at 
least  a  glimpse  of  the  promised  view,  only  to  find  that  the 
wild  growth  guards  its  secret  well.  No  hint  of  sea  or  shore 
penetrates  these  dark  preserves. 

i6i 


MOTORING    IN   THE    BALKANS 

''I  go  no  farther,"  breathlessly,  but  with  determination, 
cries  the  Renegade;  "You  go  on,  and  I  will  wait  for  you 
here,"  and  she  throws  herself  upon  the  fragrant  pine  needles, 
her  head  upon  a  hospitable  stone,  and  at  once  the  trees  whis- 
per together  and  begin  to  move  in  solemn,  slow  procession. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  've  missed,"  a  familiar  voice 
comes  faintly  to  my  ear,  and  as  I  jump  up  hastily  it  continues, 
"Why,  I  do  believe  you  've  been  asleep!" 

"Asleep?"  I  scorn  the  word!  I  have  been  transported. 
My  soul  has  gone  a-sailing  in  far-off  mystic  spheres. 

"Was  it  fine?"  I  politely  question;  but  I  must  confess 
that  as  I  listen  to  the  glowing  account  of  the  places  seen 
from  that  wooded  height,  my  ghostly  procession  of  warriors 
and  clansmen  seems  much  more  real  than  they. 

In  the  early  morning  a  colony  of  sparrows  chatter  among 
the  pines  of  the  hotel  garden,  a  flock  of  whirling  swallows 
swings  about  the  castle  cliff,  a  sheen  of  white-winged  gulls 
flashes  across  the  deep  blue  dancing  water.  How  good  it  is 
to  be  alive!  In  the  summer  warmth  much  of  our  nervous 
energy  has  departed,  and  it  seems  quite  enough  to  linger 
on  the  flower-bedecked  rocks,  or  idly  watch  the  passers-by. 

"Have  you  seen  that  curious  little  tree  springing  from 
between  the  stones  over  the  door  of  San  Guiseppe?"  I  ask 
the  Leader  at  luncheon. 

"Yes,  at  least  I  noticed  something  queer  up  there." 

"I  wish  we  could  go  that  way  the  next  time  we  go  into 
the  city.    I  want  to  see  if  I  can  get  a  picture  of  it." 

"I  know  you  can't,"  he  answers  discouragingly,  "for  the 
street  is  only  about  ten   feet   wide   and    the    top  of  the 

162 


RAGUSA  — LACROMA  — LAPAD 

door  must  be  at  least  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  from  the 
ground." 

But  we  go  over  and  examine  the  curiosity,  for  curious  it 
is.  About  fifteen  feet  high  and  apparently  flourishing,  the 
tree  is  held  close  to  the  fagade  by  an  iron  band,  and  on  an 
encircling  piece  of  pottery  are  the  dates  1806  and  1896. 
Whence  it  receives  its  nourishment,  no  one  can  tell.  By  no 
method  can  the  kodak  be  turned  enough  to  get  a  good 
picture  of  it.  Opposite,  however,  is  an  iron  gate  in  a 
high  wall.  I  peer  within,  and  quietly  pushing  it  open  go 
inside,  whence  a  flight  of  steps  leads  to  a  terrace,  but  even 
there  the  wall  conceals  the  coveted  object,  and  I  keep  on 
up  another  flight  to  a  small  porch  from  where,  to  my  joy, 
the  tree  stands  clearly  outlined.  A  kindly  faced  young 
woman  appears  from  within,  with  two  children  clinging  to 
her  skirts  and  hospitably  offers  me  the  shelter  of  her  home. 
I  motion  to  the  tree  and  she,  well  pleased  at  my  discovery, 
pours  forth  a  flood  of  patois,  of  which  I  only  catch  "miracolo^^ 
and  "bcllo''  and  ''quarenV  anniy 

"Are  n't  you  coming?"  sounds  clearly  from  below. 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  murmur,  and  hasten  to  rejoin  my  com- 
panions. 


163 


CHAPTER  XV 

RAGUSA 

"  \X7HERE  are  we  going  first,  to-day?"  I  ask,  as  we 
start  out  one  glorious  April  morning. 

"To  the  market  to  buy  some  chocolate,"  gayly  answers 
Her  Ladyship.  And  so  to  the  market  we  go.  While  the 
sweets  are  being  purchased  I  wander  to  the  other  side  of 
the  square  and  stop  before  the  booth  of  a  vender  of 
vegetables. 

"Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  the  name  of  that 
bird?"  I  inquire.  For  amidst  the  fluttering  pigeons  a  tall 
gray- winged  creature,  with  spotless  head  and  breast,  stalks, 
very  much  at  home. 

"It  is  a  sea-gull,"  answers  the  market-man. 

"But  he  has  no  fear,  not  even  of  the  dogs,"  I  remark  in 
surprise.  For  two  or  three  come  bounding  along  at  that 
moment,  barking  vigorously  and  scattering  the  pigeons  at 
their  feast. 

"No,  he  is  tame.  He  was  caught  very  young  and 
taught,  —  he  is  most  intelligent  and  knows  whether  the 
dogs  are  muzzled  or  not.  He  knows  many  things  and  for  a 
barometer  he  is  better  than  any  glass.  Three  or  four  days 
beforehand  you  can  tell  by  his  cries  when  the  weather  is 
going  to  change." 

"  In  that  case  perhaps  you  will  inform  me  if  it  will  rain 
to-day,"  —  for  the  skies  are  overcast. 

164 


RAGUSA 

"E  —  h!     Maybe  a  sprinkle  or  two,  but  not  much." 

**And  to-morrow?"  —  I  venture,  for  we  have  planned  a 
motor  ride. 

"No,  nothing  to  speak  of,"  he  assures  me,  —  perhaps 
seeing  my  ardent  desire  for  sunshine. 

"What  is  his  name?  I  mean,  what  do  you  call  him?" 
I  ask. 

"Piero.  Here,"  raising  his  voice,  "Piero,  Piero!" 
And  the  bird,  at  the  other  side  of  the  square,  picking  at  some 
refuse,  instantly  comes  at  the  well-known  call. 

"How  dear  he  is!  Can't  I  buy  something  for  him  to 
eat?" 

"Not  here,  —  he  eats  cornmeal  or  bread  or  fish";  and 
a  friendly  customer,  standing  by,  opens  her  parcel  and  gives 
me  some  pieces  of  small  fish,  which  Signor  Piero  deigns 
rather  indifferently  to  taste.  The  venders  are  much  inter- 
ested in  my  photographing  him  as  he  stands  at  my  feet. 

A  band  is  moving  rapidly  up  the  street,  and  I  ask  the 
shopkeeper  what  is  going  on.  "A  funeral,"  he  replies; 
"outside  the  Porta  Pile." 

"To  San  Michele,  perhaps?"  I  ask,  to  ascertain  whether 
the  procession  will  pass  through  the  town. 

"No,  to  Lapad,"  he  replies. 

"It  must  be  an  elaborate  ceremonial,"  I  venture,  for  I 
had  seen  men  carrying  wreaths,  going  up  the  hill  all  the 
morning. 

"  Oh,  no!  No  one  but  a  signora,"  he  dubiously  responds, 
with  the  true  Oriental  attitude  toward  the  fair  sex. 

The  costume  of  a  slim  young  Ragusan  is  very  attractive; 

1^5 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

the  dark  stuff  gown  is  trimmed  with  red  bands,  short  to 
show  white  stockings  and  red  shoes;  a  spotless  apron  and  a 
white  coif  over  a  coquettish  red  cap  complete  the  charming 
picture.  Not  only  are  the  women  gay  as  butterflies,  but 
the  men  vie  with  them  in  the  variety  and  splendor  of  their 
attire.  Here  is  a  Turk  in  full  Oriental  costume  smoking  a 
cigarette  as  he  rides  along  on  his  ambling  donkey;  and  here 
is  a  man  in  a  new  costume,  a  white  lamb's- wool  fez,  black 
and  red  striped  silk  coat  with  tight-fitting  sleeves  and  a 
short  black  sleeveless  jacket  heavily  embroidered  in  red; 
a  broad  Persian  sash  is  twisted  about  the  waist  and  the 
tight  white  lamb's-wool  trousers  are  trimmed  with  a  curious 
black  applique  and  fastened  close  at  the  ankle  with  silver 
hooks.  I  long  with  my  whole  heart  to  beg  him  to  stand  still 
for  one  small  moment,  but  he  looks  so  fierce,  he  takes  him- 
self so  seriously,  —  no,  I  really  am  afraid  I  dare  not.  And 
he  passes  swiftly  out  of  sight. 

"  I  think  he  is  from  Albania,"  remarks  the  Leader.  "We 
may  see  more  of  them  in  Montenegro." 

A  group  of  women  go  chattering  by,  their  huge  round 
baskets  deftly  balanced,  as  usual,  on  their  heads.  These 
baskets  contain  anything,  evidently,  from  clothes  to  market- 
ing and  are  often  topped  by  an  umbrella  or  broom.  By 
this  method,  the  hands  are  left  free  to  swing  or  to  assist  a 
weaker  sister. 

It  is  a  law-abiding  country,  off  here  at  the  edge  of  Europe. 
I  saw  but  four  policemen  in  all,  —  ornamental  rather  than 
necessary,  —  ready  always  to  assist  the  foreigner  with  the 
intricacies  of  dialect.     Where  in  our  own  country  would  it 

1 66 


riF.RO   THE  GULL 
(racusa) 


RAGUSA 

be  safe  to  leave  a  motor  car  at  the  front  door,  day  and 
night,  the  extra  tires  only  strapped  on  and  nothing  locked  ? 

In  the  thirteenth  century  the  only  stone  buildings  in 
Ragusa  were  the  castle  and  the  churches,  all  others  being 
of  wood.  Monte  Sergio  was  then  covered  with  forest; 
indeed,  the  Slavic  name  of  Ragusa,  Dubrovnik,  means  ''the 
woody."  Many  of  the  now  barren  mountains  in  the  interior 
of  Dalmatia  were  once  green  with  vast  tracts  of  the  mari- 
time pine;  but  the  Venetians  found  this  wood  invaluable 
for  their  ships  so  they  ruthlessly  stripped  the  country. 
Without  the  protection  of  trees,  the  soil  was  washed  dowTi 
from  the  slopes  by  the  rains,  leaving  nothing  but  the  sterile 
rock.  In  certain  regions  the  government  is  planting  young 
pine  and  beech  trees,  hoping  in  time  to  make  fertile  once 
more  these  waste  places. 

From  what  calamities  has  this  charming  city  of  Ragusa 
risen  triumphant!  Burned  to  the  ground  in  1292,  swept  by 
the  plague  in  1348,  continually  fighting  for  her  real  inde- 
pendence, in  1358  she  passed  from  Venetian  protection  to 
that  of  Louis  of  Hungary.  But  aside  from  tribute  to  be 
paid,  a  certain  number  of  galleys  to  be  furnished,  the  ob- 
ser\'ation  of  royal  feasts,  and  the  use  of  the  royal  banner, 
she  was  left  to  govern  herself  under  her  own  laws,  while 
Hungary  kept  her  enemies  away.  During  the  next  century 
she  developed  an  extensive  commerce,  not  only  with  the 
Venetians  and  the  Hungarians,  but  also  with  the  Turks, 
then  just  beginning  to  make  themselves  felt  in  Europe. 

In  1420,  when  all  the  rest  of  the  country  became  Vene- 
tian, Ragusa  attained  her  highest  supremacy,  extending  her 

167 


MOTORING   IN    THE    BALKANS 

territory  by  purchase  or  royal  grant  from  Stagno  on  the 
north  to  Punta  d'Ostro  at  the  mouth  of  the  Bocche  di  Cat- 
taro  on  the  south,  about  loo  miles.  Then  she  was  in  truth 
an  independent  Republic,  although  in  time  of  need  she  felt 
that  she  could  rely  on  Hungary,  and  afterward  upon  Austria, 
for  aid.  A  very  progressive  little  Republic  she  proved, 
for  besides  enriching  her  city  with  splendid  buildings,  in 
141 7  she  prohibited  slave-dealing,  in  1432  estabhshed  a 
FoundHngs'  Hospital,  and  in  1435  opened  the  first  public 
schools.  She  brought  water  from  Gionchetto,  eight  miles 
away,  and  erected  elaborate  fountains  at  both  her  gates. 

About  1450,  many  wealthy  Slavic  refugees,  fleeing  from 
the  Turks,  came  to  settle  in  Ragusa.  They  seem  to  have 
taken  kindly  to  Italian  civilization  and  to  have  become 
patriotic  citizens.  In  1460  Ragusa  itself  was  besieged  by 
the  Turks,  under  Mohammed  II.,  but  was  successful  in  buy- 
ing off  the  enemy. 

A  second  fire  and  a  terrible  visitation  of  the  plague 
occurred  in  1462;  but  the  undaunted  Ragusans  rebuilt 
their  Rector's  Palace  and  many  other  public  buildings, 
increased  their  commerce  by  new  treaties,  and  prospered 
exceedingly.  At  this  time  Ragusa  is  said  to  have  had  40,000 
inhabitants.  Its  productions  were  shoes  and  glass,  coral 
wares  and  wax,  and  after  1539  it  manufactured  woollen  stuffs 
and  silks.  Think  of  this  tiny  Republic  sending  her  pro- 
ducts not  only  to  Italy,  but  to  France  and  Spain,  to  Egypt 
and  even  to  the  Indies!  ''The  word  'argosy,'  or  'ragosy,' 
is  said  to  have  meant,  originally,  'a  ship  of  Ragusa.'" 

But  in   1520  a  new  terror  came  to  this  stanch  little 

168 


RAGUSA 

Republic,  —  a  terrible  earthquake,  lasting  at  intervals  for 
twenty  months  and  doing  hideous  damage.  This  was  fol- 
lowed by  so  dreadful  a  plague  that  20,000  persons  are  said 
to  have  lost  their  lives. 

With  the  sacrifice  of  tribute,  vessels,  and  many  soldiers 
to  assist  Charles  V.  against  the  Turks;  with  the  depreda- 
tions of  the  Uscocs,  and  the  shocks  of  further  earthquakes 
and  more  pestilence,  Ragusa  began  her  decline;  and  when 
finally  she  had  leisure  to  rebuild  her  ships,  in  1640,  she 
found  two  new  rivals  on  the  sea,  —  England  and  Holland. 
But  the  most  complete  calamity  that  befell  her  was  the  earth- 
quake of  1667,  which  demolished  the  cathedral,  unroofed 
all  the  churches  and  a  multitude  of  private  houses,  and  killed 
five  thousand  persons.  The  city  took  fire  and  became  the 
prey  of  hordes  of  marauders.  After  order  was  in  a  measure 
established,  another  site  was  proposed  to  the  Ragusans 
on  which  to  rebuild  their  city,  but  they  preferred  to  remain 
on  this  dangerous  mountain-side,  where  earthquakes  still 
occur,  certainly  on  an  average  of  once  in  twenty  years.  ''In 
1805  the  first  capital  sentence  for  twenty-five  years  was  pro- 
nounced. The  city  went  into  mourning  and  an  executioner 
had  to  be  brought  for  the  purpose  from  Turkey."  (F.  H. 
Jackson.)  In  1806  the  French  occupied  the  city,  and  on 
January  31,  1808,  Napoleon  decreed  that  this  sturdy  Re- 
public of  Ragusa  should  cease  to  exist.  Since  1814  it  has 
been  joined  to  the  other  cities  of  Dalmatia  under  Austrian 
rule. 

With  what  wisdom  its  rulers  must  have  administered 
this  State  that  it  could  survive  through  all  these  centuries, 

169 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

for  its  position  "exposed  it  to  constant  alarms,  surrounded 
as  it  was  by  troublesome  neighbors,  and  subject  alternately 
to  the  intrigues  and  ambitions  of  Venice,  the  unsettled  and 
discordant  projects  of  the  Slavonian  princes,  the  unstable 
friendship  of  the  Hungarians,  the  selfish  views  of  the  Span- 
iards, and  the  capricious  insolence  of  the  Turks,  to  the 
ignominy  of  whose  protection  the  hostility  of  Venice  obliged 
it  to  submit ;  and  the  whole  career  of  the  Ragusan  Republic 
was  a  struggle  for  self-preservation,  and  the  maintenance  of 
its  independence  in  the  midst  of  constant  danger."  (Sir 
Gardner  Wilkinson.) 

The  very  best  time  to  be  in  Ragusa  is  the  first  two  weeks 
in  May,  for  then  the  roses  are  at  their  loveliest  and  Summer 
is  in  full  swing.  The  day  before  we  leave  this  happy  city 
I  hie  me  to  the  market-square,  once  more  to  see  the  digni- 
fied sea-gull. 

"Good-morning,"  —  I  accost  the  busy  market-man  at 
his  booth,  "where  is  Piero  to-day?"  for  I  had  searched  both 
squares. 

His  eyes  wander  over  the  pavement,  then  lift  to  the 
clouds.  "He  must  have  gone  to  the  fish  market,"  he  an- 
swers quietly;  "He  will  soon  be  back." 

"Does  he  fly  there?"  Task. 

"Why,  certainly,"  he  replies,  —  as  if  to  say,  "How  else 
should  he  go?" 

"But  his  wings  are  not  clipped,  then?" 

"No,  indeed,"  he  somewhat  indignantly  responds.  "He 
will  be  back  here  soon." 

"He  is  a  marvel,  your  Piero,  I  think." 

170 


RAGUSA 

"He  is  a  most  intelligent  bird,"  responds  the  market- 
man. 

I  wait  before  the  Rector's  Palace,  feasting  my  eyes  upon 
its  lovely  lines,  gazing  at  the  casual  and  picturesque  passers- 
by,  and  drinking  in  the  sweet,  soft  southern  air,  and  it  is 
not  very  long  before  my  friend,  the  market-gardener,  cries 
from  his  busy  booth:  "Look!"  pointing  to  the  sky.  With 
a  graceful  sweep,  the  sunlight  turning  his  snowy  breast  to 
silver,  down  flies  Piero,  the  intelligent,  alighting  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  my  hand.  How  saucily  he  cocks  his  head 
on  one  side,  as  much  has  to  say,  "It  is  nothing.  It  is  per- 
fectly easy.     Why  don't  you  try  it?" 

When  we  were  resting  after  dinner  that  evening  the 
Leader  broached  the  subject  of  motoring  all  the  way  to 
Cetinje  —  a  feat  not  usually  attempted  by  tourists. 

"Do  you  suppose  we  can  do  it?"  cried  the  Enthusiast. 

"Easily  enough,"  replied  the  Leader  of  the  Expedition; 
"if  we  can  only  get  across  the  Bocche." 

"You  know  General  Winchester  had  to  turn  back  at  the 
ferry,"  reminded  Madame  Content,  with  her  usual  caution, 
for  "the  ferry"  consisted  of  a  good-sized  row-boat. 

"Yes,  —  but  motors  have  been  over." 

"As  large  as  ours?" 

"Oh,  well,  of  that  I  am  not  sure.  If  only  the  road  were 
completed!" 

For  there  is  to  be  a  wonderfully  interesting  drive  close 
to  the  shore,  leading  from  village  to  village  entirely  around 
the  five  bays  constituting  the  so-called  "Bocche."  Beneath 
towering  mountains,  it  continues  from  Castelnuovo  through 

171 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

Meljine,  Zelenika,  Kamenari,  Morinje,  Risano,  Perasto, 
Orahovac  and  Dobrota,  to  Cattaro,  where  the  cHmb  into 
Montenegro  begins.  Already  it  is  finished  as  far  as  Kamen- 
ari and  is  passable,  although  somewhat  narrow,  for  a  few 
miles  further  on.  I  believe  one  intrepid  motorist  pene- 
trated into  its  depths  so  far  that  he  had  to  run  backward  a 
mile  before  finding  a  suitable  place  in  which  to  turn  around 
again.  Probably  this  is  the  old  Roman  road  which  came 
down  from  Aquileia  through  Epidaurus  (Zara  Vecchia) 
turning  at  Castelnuovo  to  connect  these  colonies  of  the 
Bocche  with  Durazzo  on  the  coast,  just  beyond  the  mouth 
of  the  Drin. 

''Let  us  go  down  to  Zelenika,  anyway,  and  look  at  the 
facilities  for  crossing,"  advised  the  Leader;  "if  we  find  them 
inadequate  we  can  easily  turn  back." 

"You  won't  take  any  risks  with  our  precious  car,  will 
you?"  begged  Madame  Content;  and  being  reassured,  the 
date  was  decided  upon. 

This  was  Tuesday.  On  Wednesday  a  charming  Eng- 
lish couple  called  with  a  letter  of  introduction  from 
a  mutual  friend,  and  naturally  the  talk  fell  upon  our 
plans. 

"No,  I  'm  afraid  we  won't  be  able  to  take  that  wonder- 
ful drive  in  the  motor,"  answered  Madame  Content;  "and 
the  seven  hours'  climb  in  one  of  those  uncomfortable  little 
carriages  rather  appals  me." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  sure  you  can  get  your  automobile  across 
someway,"  encouraged  these  new  acquaintances.  "Why, 
the  Prince  has  one  at  least,  and  a  year  ago  we  met  two  on 

172 


RAGUSA 

the  way  up.     Do    you    suppose   they    shipped    them    by 
steamer  from  here  to  Cattaro?" 

And  with  this  hint  the  Leader  began  making  inquiries; 
but  the  banker  and  the  gasoHne  dealer  both  agreed  that 
the  steamship  company,  not  being  accustomed  to  handhng 
such  bulky,  heavy,  yet  delicate,  objects,  the  landing  arrange- 
ments at  Cattaro  would  probably  be  found  unsafe.  In 
fact  there  would  be  too  much  risk  of  disabling  the  car  and 
so  closing  abruptly  our  pleasant  journeyings. 

"Why  not  get  a  government  barge?"  suggested  this 
resourceful  English  authoress. 

*'0f  course,  a  government  barge  would  solve  our  difficul- 
ties, and  be  the  very  thing;  but  we  understand  that  naturally 
the  Austrian  navy  is  not  loaning  its  vessels  to  stranded 
motorists  without  orders  from  headquarters;  and  a  permit 
from  Vienna  might  take  weeks  to  reach  us." 

"Perhaps  we  could  do  something,"  interposed  the  help- 
ful lady;  "the  commandant  at  Castelnuovo  was  very  kind 
to  us  last  year,  and  if  he  could,  would  be  glad,  I  am  sure, 
to  assist  you.  Certainly  it  would  be  no  trouble  for  us  to 
make  inquiries,  as  we  are  going  to  Cattaro  to-morrow.  I 
think  you  will  find  all  the  Austrian  officials  most  courteous 
and  anxious  to  do  everything  in  their  power  for  visiting 
strangers.     What  day  did  you  say  you  wished  to  cross?" 

"Why,  Friday  or  Saturday  would  be  equally  convenient." 

"Well,  one  of  us  will  get  off  at  Castelnuovo  and  see  what 
can  be  done." 

I  am  afraid  we  were  skeptical  of  their  success,  although 
we  thanked  them  heartily  for  their  endeavors.     We  knew 

173 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

that  motors  had  been  taken  across  by  lashing  two  small 
boats  together  —  at  least,  so  we  were  told.  How  they  man- 
aged to  get  them  down  from  the  dock  some  six  feet  above 
the  water  into  those  same  boats  was  not  explained. 

"Oh,  yes!  We  have  taken  over  big  cars  —  some  that 
weighed  ten  tons,"  boasted  one  too  ambitious  native.  As 
our  car  only  tipped  the  scales  at  the  modest  weight  of  one 
and  one-half  tons,  we  regarded  with  some  suspicion  any 
further  statement  this  well-meaning  Dalmatian  might  make. 

Great,  therefore,  was  our  surprise  and  joy  when  we 
received  from  our  influential  friends  the  welcome  news 
that  they  had  been  able  to  arrange  everything  for  us;  and 
that  by  applying  to  the  commandant  at  Castelnuovo  the 
barge  would  be  sent  to  Kamenari  to  carry  our  motor  across 
that  narrow  but  important  strait  in  the  Bocche  di  Cattaro. 
It  was  decided  that  we  start  early  the  next  day. 


174 


CHAPTER  XVI 
RAGUSA   TO   ZELENIKA 

piERO  was  right  —  it  did  not  rain,  —  and  the  sun  was 
shining  gloriously  when  I  awakened  that  morning  to 
the  sound  of  martial  music  in  the  street.  Opening  the 
shutters,  I  spied  a  military  band  marching  gayly  by,  followed 
by  a  company  of  infantry,  and  the  usual  adoring  crowd  of 
small  boys.  It  seems  to  have  plenty  to  do,  —  this  military 
band,  —  for  scarcely  a  day  passes  that  we  do  not  hear  it  in 
some  quarter  of  the  city.  It  plays  well,  too,  —  quite  a 
ripertoire,  from  Chopin's  Funeral  March  to  the  Merry 
Widow  Waltz. 

But  what  is  this  ?  The  music  has  turned  in  by  the  hotel 
and  halts  at  the  entrance  under  our  windows  —  rather  a 
delicate  bit  of  attention  at  parting,  I  muse,  although,  per- 
haps, seven-thirty  in  the  morning  is  a  bit  early  for  enthusi- 
asm on  the  part  of  the  recipient!  But  they  do  not  linger,  — 
they  are  evidently  a  much-in-demand  band.  After  one 
tune,  down  the  hill  they  go,  still  playing,  and  the  echoes  of 
the  music  come  faint  and  more  faint  as  they  disappear 
through  the  Porta  Pile  and  back  to  their  quarters  again. 

Another  band  is  heard  in  the  distance,  another  band 
marches  up  the  hill,  another  band  turns  in  and  stops  under 
our  windows.  Really,  this  attention  is  growing  overpower- 
ing! They  play  two  tunes  in  our  bewildered  ears  while 
the  curtains  of  the  automobile  are  taken  off  and  the  top  put 

175 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

down,  ready  for  travelling.  The  dust  whirls  in  clouds 
through  the  small  court.  Little  girls  have  joined  the  proces- 
sion, some  of  them  leading  by  the  hand  brothers  too  tiny  to 
trudge  alone.  A  victoria  below  has  lilacs  at  the  horses'  ears 
and  adorning  the  lanterns.  Is  he  a  nature-loving  coach- 
man; or  is  some  one  important  leaving  by  the  boat  this 
morning;  or  is  this  a  May  Day  celebration? 

Behold,  still  a  third  band  makes  its  appearance!  I  had 
no  idea  that  there  were  so  many  in  Ragusa.  Smaller  in 
numbers,  perhaps,  this  one  plays  with  vim  and  without  the 
assistance  of  the  drum  major.  The  officer  in  charge  does 
not  enter  the  hotel  and  the  stay  is  brief;  the  big  bass  drum, 
conveniently  rolling  on  two  small  wheels,  disappears  down 
the  hill,  followed  by  the  flower-decked  carriage. 

The  school  children  twirl  a  rose  or  carry  a  bundle  of 
flowers,  the  peasant  tucks  a  deep  scarlet  one  behind  her 
soft  brown  ear.  Another  vehicle,  bedecked  with  green, 
passes.  Evidently  it  is  a  jesta.  And  this  is  the  way  the 
lively  Ragusans  celebrate  the  first  of  May. 

It  is  indeed  a  perfect  morning,  warm,  with  a  southern 
breeze,  and  light  white  clouds  drifting  over  the  sky,  tempering 
the  heat  of  the  sun  as  we  leave  Ragusa,  —  bound  for  Monte- 
negro. A  broad  new  road  has  been  blasted  from  the  mountain 
side  around  the  walls  of  Ragusa,  thus  relieving  the  Stradone. 

"What  splendid  harness!"  cries  the  Enthusiast,  as  the 
sun's  rays  reflect  dazzlingly  from  big  brass  plaques  and 
rings  holding  bright  tassels;  for  we  are  on  the  highway  to 
Trebinje  and  the  peasants  from  the  Herzegovina  are  coming 

to  market. 

176 


THE    MOAl    CnWKRl'KU    IXll)    A    TAKK,    KAGUSA 


RAGUSA    TO    ZELENIKA 

"  Why  do  the  men  wear  a  thick  vest  over  that  long  white 
lamb's-wool  coat,  I  wonder,  when  it  is  so  hot?"  inquires 
Madame  Content. 

"Because  it  is  the  custom,  I  suppose,  for  one  reason, 
and  for  another  it  is  so  very  becoming.  Have  n't  you 
noticed  how  beautifully  they  are  embroidered  and  the  hang- 
ing buttons  of  filigree  silver?" 

"Yes,  but  that  does  not  make  them  cool,"  she  persists. 

"Well,  they  are  prepared  for  all  sorts  of  weather,  you  see ; 
when  the  sun  sets  and  they  are  climbing  the  mountains  on 
their  return  homeward,  doubtless  they  will  be  very  glad  of 
all  that  clothing." 

The  first  red  poppies  are  starring  the  stony  fields,  long- 
stemmed  dandelions  in  strange  clusters  nod  gayly  from 
under  bare  rocks,  and  the  air  is  heavy  with  the  perfume  of 
gorse.  Near  the  monastery  of  San  Giacomo  we  look  back 
at  the  exquisite  view  of  Ragusa,  and  the  green-wooded 
peak  of  Mt.  Petka  rising  behind  the  castellated  Minceta 
Tower.  A  bend  in  the  road,  and  three  carriages  filled  to 
overflowing  with  men  and  women  in  the  gayest  of  clothes  and 
spirits,  confront  our  delighted  eyes.  The  horses,  sorry  beasts, 
have  not  the  courage  to  rebel  at  sight  of  this  new  monster 
and  we  pass  them  all  too  swiftly.  "It  must  be  a  wedding 
party,"  I  exclaim;  "Did  you  see  all  the  silver  coins  and 
buttons  and  braids?" 

"And  the  gold-embroidered  jackets  and  beads?"  add 
Madame  Content. 

"Perhaps  they  are  from  the  Valle  di  Breno  which  we 
soon  enter,"   remarks  the   Leader.     "You  remember,  the 

177 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

people  there  are  noted  for  their  good  looks  and  becoming 
costumes." 

The  excellent  road  against  the  side  of  the  cliff  overhangs 
the  silvery  sea;  and  as  we  make  the  innumerable  turns,  new 
and  varied  combinations  of  mountains  and  deep-cut  bays 
are  disclosed.  Here  in  the  Val  d'Orsola  the  rocks  support 
a  slender  growth  of  evergreen,  just  enough  to  emphasize, 
by  its  rich  shade,  the  opalescent  tints  of  the  bare  crags.  At 
their  feet  the  water  forms  a  foaming  line  of  white,  and  point 
after  point  juts  forth  into  the  sea,  —  until  the  Punta  d  'Ostro 
tells  where  the  Bocche  begins. 

The  mulberries  are  in  full  leaf  in  sheltered  corners,  as 
leaving  the  water  gradually  we  ascend  through  pine  woods  to 
the  top  where  the  Trebinje  route  branches  north.  Our  way 
lies  before  us  in  the  luxuriant  valley  of  the  Breno,  green 
with  its  figs  and  olives,  oaks  and  cypresses;  in  the  vine- 
yards men  are  working,  raising  small  hillocks  around  each 
precious  vine. 

"Look!  —  that  man  wears  his  sash  outside  his  long  white 
coat  and  he  has  a  turban  instead  of  a  cap,"  exclaims  the 
Enthusiast,  as  a  donkey  with  his  rider  trots  calmly  by;  "I 
wish  I  knew  from  what  part  of  the  country  he  comes." 

"It  would  take  a  life-time  to  learn  all  these  varied  cos- 
tumes," Madame  Content  replies.  "I  think  it  is  nice  just 
to  enjoy  them  and  not  bother." 

Out  from  the  sheltered  cove  where  Breno  lies,  —  passing 
her  famous  mill  and  white  cascades,  —  we  climb  again 
beneath  great  towering  cliffs.  Near  Plat  the  smooth  high- 
way ascends  more  gradually  above  the  crystal  water,  the  air 

178 


RAGUSA    TO    ZELENIKA 

is  soft  with  the  perfume  of  gorse,  and  on  the  crags  grows 
my  Lacroma  flower,  like  a  Cherokee  rose.  I  can  resist  no 
longer.  "Oh,  can't  we  stop  and  get  a  bunch  of  flowers?" 
I  cry. 

"Why  not?"  replies  the  Leader.  And  with  a  sharp 
knife  and  protecting  gloves,  a  branch  of  yellow  gorse  is 
plucked  and  tucked  into  the  hood's  supports  on  either  side, 
while  men  in  a  field  below  gaze  in  wide-eyed  wonder. 

At  Obed  a  rough  road  leads  down  to  Ragusa  Vecchia, 
on  a  point  jutting  into  the  bay.  The  Dalmatians  have  a 
curious  custom  of  calling  a  bay  or  gulf  a  valle,  which  is  con- 
fusing to  unaccustomed  ears;  thus  this  ancient  town,  so 
picturesquely  placed,  lies  at  the  edge  of  the  Valle  di  Breno. 
Its  white  bell-towers  reflect  the  morning  sun,  while  the  green 
water  forms  foam-flecked  circles  around  the  dank,  projecting 
rocks  of  Mrkan  and  Supetar.  These  "Pettini"  of  Ragusa 
Vecchia  serve  as  a  wind-break  to  protect  the  city.  It  is 
well  named  old,  as  its  foundations  are  lost  in  the  mists  of 
antiquity.  Since  639,  when  the  Avars  ravaged  it  and  drove 
its  inhabitants  to  a  safer  harbor  at  the  present  Ragusa.  it 
has  survived  only  as  a  straggling  village. 

We  leave  the  water  now  and  rise  through  a  low  scrubby 
growth,  meeting  more  gayly  dressed  pedestrians  and  coming 
suddenly  upon  a  groupe  of  maidens  driving  loaded  mules. 
With  a  common  impulse,  naturally  every  one  of  the  dumb 
animals  turns  and  tries  to  run,  but  the  young  girls  are  fully 
competent  for  their  task.  With  concerted  impulse  each  one 
attends  to  her  own  particular  charge  and  the  brilliant  colors 
dance  over  the  gray  hillock  as  we  stop  to  let  them  pass. 

179 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

One  particularly  pretty  creature  makes  a  charming  picture 
as  she  fleetly  runs  after  her  escaping  beast  and  drags  him 
to  safety  amidst  the  yellow  gorse.  How  triumphantly  she 
stands,  one  hand  on  her  hip,  her  cheeks  rivalling  the  bright 
red  of  her  cap  under  the  demure  white  coif  as  she  beckons 
gayly  for  us  to  go  on ! 

A  wider  valley  opens  before  us  now,  beneath  high, 
sterile  mountains,  where  a  long  white  line  winding  downward 
marks  the  route  of  the  new  railroad.  At  Cilipi  it 
reaches  the  level  of  the  road  and  we  cross  it  to  descend 
into  a  flooded  plain,  —  another  winter  lake,  —  where 
t'he  green  is  already  beginning  to  show  as  the  water 
recedes. 

Skirting  its  western  side  for  a  few  kilometers  we  reach 
Gruda,  a  valley  of  vines,  broad  and  protected  on  both  sides 
by  high  hills.  A  small  rivulet  appears  beside  us,  an  un- 
usual sight  in  Dalmatia;  blue  swallows  circle  over  it 
and  the  big  blue-and- fawn-colored  bird  that  I  saw  on  the 
pass  obligingly  perches  on  top  of  a  low  tree,  so  that  I  get  an 
excellent  view  of  him.  Following  the  tiny  rivulet  to  its 
source,  we  climb  by  steep  grades  to  the  top  of  a  ridge  where, 
—  just  beyond  a  gendarmerie,  —  we  get  our  first  view  of 
the  Bocche  di  Cattaro. 

Very  beautiful  they  are,  those  land-encircled  bays  at  the 
foot  of  the  Montenegrin  mountains,  white  with  snow;  but 
the  Leader  is  only  giving  one-half  of  his  attention  to  the 
view,  as  the  narrow  loops  downward  are  dangerously  steep 
and  the  turns  short.  Another  brook  has  taken  us  in  charge, 
a  tiny  stream  in  a  broad  gravelly  bed,  over  which  gold- 

i8o 


RAGUSA    TO    ZELENIKA 

finches  fly,  seeming  to  reflect  the  buttercups  that  gild  the 
low-lying  meadows. 

Crossing  the  river  and  valley  of  Sutorina,  —  a  strip  of  the 
Herzegovinian  territory,  —  and  passing  the  dear  little  ceme- 
tery of  Igalo,  purple  with  growing  iris,  we  come  to  the 
waters  of  the  Bocche  near  Castelnuovo.  The  hills  bristle 
with  forts ;  a  sentinel  looks  at  us  curiously ;  hedges  of  pink 
tamarisk  bend  over  the  water,  its  tasselled  flowers  in  exquisite 
contrast  with  the  sapphire  of  the  sea!  In  the  distance,  to 
the  south,  we  discern  the  narrow,  well-guarded  entrance 
to  the  Bocche.  The  signs  over  the  shops  and  inns  are  now 
in  Slavic  characters. 

As  we  near  Castelnuovo  the  little  garden  terraces  over- 
flow with  roses;  great  bushes,  heavy  with  pink  bloom,  hang 
over  the  high  walls;  and  at  each  fresh  discovery  we  on  the 
back  seat  cannot  restrain  our  enthusiasm.  Sheltered  by 
high  mountains  from  the  north  wind,  basking  in  the  splen- 
dors of  a  southern  sun,  with  the  waters  of  an  inland  sea  at 
its  feet,  Castelnuovo  surely  possesses  all  the  conditions  con- 
ducive to  luxuriant  vegetation. 

In  Slavic  Erzegnovi,  "it  was  founded  in  1373  by  the  Bos- 
niak  King  Tvarko  I.,  Kotromanovic."  Later  it  became 
the  capital  of  the  dukedom  of  the  Herzegovina  under  Duke 
Stjepan  Sandal j.  Indeed,  the  name  Herzegovina  is  said 
to  have  been  derived  from  this  town.  At  his  death  the 
Turks  captured  Castelnuovo,  but  in  1538  they  were  driven 
out  by  the  Spaniards.  This  "was  the  only  part  of  Dalmatia 
ever  held  by  the  Spaniards."  According  to  tradition,  they 
built  the  picturesque  castle  on  the  hill  with  its  four  towers, 

181 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

still  called  Fort  Spagnuolo,  but  only  succeeded  in  keeping 
the  place  a  few  months,  when  the  Turks  overwhelmed 
them.  In  1687  the  Venetians,  assisted  by  the  Knights  of 
Malta,  added  Castelnuovo  to  their  possessions. 

We  choose  the  lower  road,  passing  the  ancient  fortifica- 
tions, now  in  picturesque  ruins  and  heavily  draped  with  ivy. 
The  tiled  roofs  of  the  houses  peep  from  the  wooded  hillside 
and  many  ships  and  barges  are  anchored  in  the  port.  Close 
to  the  sea  we  speed,  beneath  date  palms  and  cypresses, 
through  the  military  encampment  of  Meljine,  under  the 
monastery  gardens  of  Savina,  to  the  present  end  of  the  rail- 
way, Zelenika. 

Why  Zelenika?  Because  there  a  "Pension"  awaits  the 
traveller,  clean,  although  furnished  with  Spartan  simplicity, 
and  the  cuisine  of  the  Hungarian  Major  is  far-famed  through- 
out the  countryside. 


182 


CHAPTER   XVII 
ZELENIKA 

"HpHERE  isn't  a  single  solitary  thing  in  the  Baedeker 
about  Zelenika;  just  the  name  all  by  itself  in  the  fine 
print  at  the  end  of  the  line,"  gleefully  comments  Madame 
Content,  looking  up  from  her  guide-book  as,  —  after  a 
delicious  luncheon,  served  on  a  sunny  balcony  overhanging 
the  water,  —  we  sit  on  the  beach  enjoying  the  sweet  per- 
fumed air  and  the  sails  drifting  by.  "There  is  n't  a  thing 
to  see,  no  church,  no  view,  no  village,  even.  We  can  be 
lazy  this  afternoon,"  and  there  is  a  distinct  note  of  exulta- 
tion in  her  voice. 

How  beautiful  it  is,  with  a  restful  stillness  broken  only 
by  the  buzzing  of  an  occasional  bee  hovering  over  the  flowery 
meadows,  dipping  into  the  genista  blossoms,  or  stealing 
sweetness  from  the  wild  thyme  at  our  feet.  The  apple-trees 
are  in  bloom  and  the  larches  in  newest,  softest  green  against 
the  pines;  up  the  hillside  great  magnolias  flourish  and  every- 
where rose  vines  clamber  in  profusion.  The  air  is  sweet 
with  gorse  and  wild  finocchi;  forget-me-nots  and  buttercups, 
daisies  and  yellow  mustard,  star  the  ground;  and  in  our 
steamer  chairs  we  idly  watch  the  sea. 

A  man-of-war  rides  at  anchor  just  outside  the  inlet  and 
a  black  launch  floating  a  pennant  half  as  big  as  itself  goes 
puf!ing  by  from  Castelnuovo. 

"Do  you  suppose  a  train  comes  out  every  day,  or  only 

183 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

once  a  week?"  asks  my  companion,  dubiously.  "Do  you 
know,  I  feel  as  if  this  were  pretty  near  the  jumping-off  place, 
don't  you?" 

Possibly  the  absence  of  her  liege  lord  has  affected  the 
Gentle  Lady's  attitude;  for  he  has  gone  to  Castelnuovo  to 
pay  his  respects  to  the  officials  who  have  so  kindly  offered 
to  facilitate  our  crossing  the  Bocche. 

But,  divertingly,  I  point  out  the  big  steamers  passing  to 
and  fro,  and  the  sailing  ships  tacking  back  and  forth  from 
the  narrow  neck  of  the  Canale  di  Kumbor  toward  the  Baja 
di  Topla.  The  sails  here  lack  the  Venetian  coloring  and 
the  broad  hulls  are  crowded  with  people.  Are  they,  too, 
"observing  their  first  of  May  as  a  holiday"  ?  A  fine  breeze 
is  blowing  off  shore  and  the  barge-like  crafts  speed  merrily 
along,  one  of  them  so  near  that  we  can  hear  the  voices  of  the 
merry-makers. 

"Are  they  coming  in?"  asks  the  Gentle  Lady.  Yes, 
a  row-boat  puts  off  for  the  shore  with  a  rope  and  the 
sailor  attaches  it  to  the  rocks  as  simply  as  if  he  were  tether- 
ing a  horse.  Soon  the  sloop  floats,  silent  as  a  dreamship 
on  the  water,  her  sails  lowered,  her  jolly  cargo  landed. 

"Oh,  do  come  here,"  cries  Madame  Content,  "what 
is  that  brown  thing  floating  on  the  water?  Here  is  an- 
other, and  that  one  has  feelers  ten  inches  long,  at  least. 
Would  n't  it  be  fun  to  catch  one  and  see  it  closer?" 

"If  one  only  had  a  stick  or  a  pail,"  and  I  go  determin- 
edly towards  the  hotel. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  am  going  to  get  one." 

184 


riLIF.I)    ROCK    SIRATA    Al'    ZKLKXIKA 


ZELENIKA 

"You  are?"  and  Her  Ladyship's  mocking  laugh  follows 
me. 

"  Oh,  Signore,"  I  ask  of  the  immaculate  Boniface,  "There 
is  such  a  queer  fish  out  here;  it  opens  and  shuts  a  claret- 
colored  sort  of  fringed  parachute.  I  do  so  want  to  see  it 
near,  —  might  I  have  a  pail  or  a  net  or  something?" 

"It  must  be  a  medusa,"  he  remarks  in  response  to  my 
feeble  explanations.  "There  are  many  about  here  and 
they  grow  to  be  ten  inches  across,  but  these  are  young  yet. 
Is  that  it?"  and  he  points  to  a  spot  on  the  rocks  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  clear  water. 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  exclaim,  eagerly  A  boat  is  untied,  an 
old  tin  bucket  procured,  and  we  fish  up  Madamoiselle 
Medusa.  In  glee  I  carry  her  to  Madame  Content  with  the 
aid  of  the  smiling  porter,  and  we  study  her  strange  openings 
and  shuttings,  her  marks  and  fringe  of  softest  feathery 
brown.  She  turns  politely  at  our  invitation,  and  submits 
to  the  kodak  without  a  murmur;  but  the  confinement  of  the 
pail  plainly  palls  upon  her  and  after  a  few  minutes  we 
return  her  to  her  own  briny  element.  She  breathes  with 
new  zest  and  rolls  over  and  over  in  the  lapping  water. 

When  the  Leader  comes  back  from  Castelnuovo,  his 
alert  step  and  beaming  eye  denote  a  new  project.  "What 
is  it?"  we  both  exclaim,  but  he  only  replies, — 

"How  would  you  like  to  take  a  walk?" 

"We  would  love  it,  but  where?"  There  seems  to  be 
nothing  but  the  dusty  highroad. 

"I  thought  I  saw  a  path  through  the  woods  just  beyond 
Meljine."    The  woods!     We  two  exchange  glances  in  de- 

^^5 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

light  at  the  mere  word.     Thus  tempted,  we  leave  our  snug 
comer  under  the  rocks  and  seek  the  promised  path. 

''This  is  the  first  day  we  have  been  comfortable  sitting 
out  of  doors  in  the  shade  without  a  wrap,"  remarks  Madame 
Content;  "of  course,  we  have  been  coming  south  all  the 
time,  too." 

''But  isn't  it  an  ideal  May  Day?"  puts  in  the  Enthu- 
siast; "such  as  we  read  about  in  the  olden  times  when  chil- 
dren gathered  wild  flowers  for  their  wreaths  and  danced 
about  a  ribboned  May-pole." 

"Do  look  at  those  steps!  What  beautiful  moss!"  inter- 
rupts Madame  Content.  "Where  do  they  lead,  I  wonder?'* 
and  she  follows  their  aspiring  outline  with  her  eyes.  "Is  n't 
that  a  church  or  something  up  there,  near  that  tall  cypress  ?" 

The  Leader  stares  fixedly  at  the  white  campanile,  and  his 
eyes  dance,  but  his  voice  is  perfectly  grave  as  he  replies: 
"Why,  it  does  look  like  a  church.  We  might  go  up  and 
see." 

We  do;  —  up,  up  and  ever  up,  we  climb  the  ancient 
stony  steps  half  overgrown  with  thyme,  —  and  gaining  the 
high  terrace,  sink  upon  its  low  wall  to  look  with  wonder  and 
delight  over  the  green  hillside,  down  to  the  beautiful  sea. 
Close  beside  us  are  a  few  old  grave-stones  inscribed  with 
Slavic  characters  near  a  domed  church;  a  tall  white  belfry; 
a  chapel  wih  a  bunch  of  huge  keys  hanging  hospitably  from 
the  door-knob;  a  long,  low  monastery  with  every  window 
thrown  wide  open;  • —  but  not  a  friar  or  a  priest. 

"What  is  it?"  I  ask;  for  this  I  know  is  the  spot  which 
the  Leader  had  in  view  when  he  suggested  our  stroll. 

i86 


ZELENIKA 

"It  is  the  monastery  of  Santa  Savina,  not  very  old,  for 
it  was  founded  in  the  sixteenth  century  by  the  Greek  or 
Orthodox  monks  driven  from  Trebinje  by  the  Moslems; 
but  now  it  belongs  to  the  Bishop  of  Cattaro,  who  uses  it  as 
a  summer  residence" ;  —  the  Leader  is  well  launched  upon 
his  topic.  "It  celebrates  the  Assumption  with  great  pomp, 
and  the  gathering  of  the  peasants  at  that  time  must  be  well 
worth  seeing." 

"Oh,  when  is  it?"  I  cry. 

"The  twenty-seventh  of  August." 

"  Oh,  dear!  Nearly  all  the  pilgrimages  have  their  special 
jeste  in  the  Summertime!  Don't  you  remember  Rocama- 
dour  —  " 

"Is  that  a  chapel  up  there  in  the  trees?"  interrupts  the 
Leader,  "or  a  look-out?  The  view  must  be  wonderful 
from  there." 

We  rise  and  follow  him  up  the  goat  path  to  another 
lofty  terrace.  What  a  panorama  lies  before  us!  Santa 
Savina  guarded  by  her  solitary  pine  and  towering  cypress, 
far  below  the  winding  waters  of  the  Bocche  di  Cattaro 
merging  into  the  open  sea,  and  on  the  eastern  horizon 
the  mountains  of  Montenegro  rising  in  opalescent 
splendor. 

As  we  rest  on  the  ivy-covered  wall,  where  the  honeysuckle 
exhales  its  spicy  fragrance,  a  hidden  bird,  after  a  few  prelim- 
inary whistles,  begins  his  evening  song,  —  begms  it  rather 
low,  with  soft,  reassuring  murmurs,  —  then  forgetting  all 
else,  bursts  into  paeans  of  joy,  and  trills  his  ecstasy  in  gay 
and  rollicking  numbers.     Other  birds  hear  him,   farther 

187 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

away,  and  attempt  mimicry,  but  he  triumphantly  silences 
all  until  the  forest  rings  with  his  melodies. 

In  the  early  twilight  we  leave  the  sacred  height  of  Santa 
Savina  and  silently  descend  on  the  other  side  by  steep, 
winding  paths  through  its  low  growth  of  live-oaks,  bay, 
and  laurel, —  paths  sometimes  indicated  by  half-obliterated 
signs  on  mossy  stone  posts,  but  alas!  the  words  are  Slavic 
and  the  letters  Greek!  There  are  moments  when  I  sus- 
pect that  we  have  lost  our  way,  —  in  places  the  walk  degen- 
erates into  steps  roughly  hewn  from  the  rock,  but  farther 
on  becoming  smooth  and  sandy  under  the  whispering  pines, 
it  leads  us  to  a  "rond  point, ^^  where  the  woods  have  been 
cut  away,  enabling  one  to  get  a  new  picture  —  the  gleam- 
ing bare  crags  of  the  gray  Dalmatian  mountains  behind  all 
this  greenness  of  the  shore,  and  in  the  foreground,  the  white 
tents  of  the  Austrian  encampment  at  Meljine. 

"Let  me  see,"  muses  the  Leader  late  that  same  evening, 
"we  have  only  about  sixty-eight  kilometers  to  go  to-morrow, 
—  a  little  over  eleven  from  here  to  the  ferry  at  Kamenari, 
than  about  twelve  to  Cattaro,  and  from  there  I  think  it  is 
forty-four  kilometers  to  Cetinje." 

"I  do  hope  we  '11  have  a  day  like  to-day,"  exclaims  the 
Enthusiast. 


i88 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
ENTERING    MONTENEGRO 

TT  was  with  a  distinct  thrill  that  we  started  away  from 

Zelenika  that  sunlit  morning,  for  we  were  to  be  in 
Montenegro  by  nightfall,  indeed,  if  the  plans  went  well  we 
should  reach  Cetinje  for  luncheon.  The  sheltered  valley  of 
the  Rucani  River  was  rich  in  figs  and  cherries,  olive  orchards 
extended  on  the  slopes  above,  and  splendid  poplars  and  pines 
cast  grateful  shade ;  the  level  road  close  to  the  water's  edge 
gave  us  a  constant  succession  of  changing  scenes.  Off 
Kumbor  lay  some  torpedo  boats  and  a  detachment  of  ma- 
rines passed  by  us  marching.  The  Bay  of  Teodo  opened 
before  us,  disclosing  a  chain  of  blue  mountains  with  a  snow- 
capped peak  in  the  centre. 

"Do  you  see  that  highest  mountain?"  asked  the  Leader, 
turning  around  in  his  seat.  "That  is  Lovcen,  and  we  go 
in  behind  it  to  Cetinje."  It  seemed  incredible  that  we 
could  so  quickly  reach  the  lower  shoulders  and  climb  the 
far  heights  of  this  mighty  mass  outlined  against  the  sky. 

"I  never  saw  so  many  soldiers,"  remarked  Madame  Con- 
tent, "and  sailors,  too.  I  don't  believe  you  had  better  let 
them  see  your  camera." 

So  the  innocent  black  box  was  sent  into  limbo  and 
the  incidents  of  this  short  ride  were  recorded  only  on  our 
memories. 

The  clumsy  sardine  boats,  with  their  huge  fishing  lan- 

189 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

terns,  were  anchored  close  to  the  quays,  where  brown  nets 
were  spread  out  to  dry.  Cherry  and  fig  trees  flourished  in 
small  plats  of  gravelly  beach,  divided  by  stone  walls,  and 
under  their  shade  lay  tiny  boats.  It  made  a  delightful 
combination  of  sea  and  land  life. 

But  scarcely  had  we  been  on  our  way  twenty  minutes 
when  around  a  sharp  bend  appeared  the  stage  from  Risano. 
The  horses,  frightened  as  much  by  the  antics  of  the  terri- 
fied driver  as  by  our  approach,  reared  and  backed  and  the 
poor  man  shouted  and  pulled  on  one  rein,  not  knowing  what 
he  was  doing.  The  road  was  extremely  narrow,  a  ditch  on 
one  side,  the  quay  on  the  other.  We  had  stopped  and  turned 
off  the  power  some  fifty  feet  away,  but  nothing  could  reas- 
sure the  frantic  peasant.  And  nothing  could  calm  his  terror, 
until,  in  his  endeavor  to  turn  around,  the  top-heavy  vehicle 
tipped  over  and  the  pole  snapped.  I  knew  then  what  a 
^'sickening  thud"  meant.  Instantly  our  Leader  and  the 
chauffeur  ran  down  to  rescue  the  occupants  of  the  diligence. 

"Don't  you  dare  use  your  kodak,"  commanded  the 
usually  Gentle  Lady,  as  I  instinctively  reached  down  be- 
neath the  robes.  ''We  may  all  be  arrested  any  way.  I 
don't  feel  at  all  secure." 

I  have  always  regretted  that  I  failed  to  get  a  picture  of 
that  foolish  driver  and  the  group  of  dishevelled  people  who, 
disentangling  themselves  from  loose  straps  and  bundles, 
crept  unhurt  from  beneath  the  black  hood.  The  horses 
did  not  try  to  run  and  under  the  chauffeur's  calm  guidance 
were  safely  led  by  our  silent  car.  The  vehicle  was  righted 
and  rope  procured  to  temporarily  mend  the  dilapidated 

190 


ENTERING    MONTENEGRO 

harness.  To  our  surprise  one  of  the  occupants  of  the 
stage  spoke  EngHsh  fluently,  and  assured  us  that  no  one 
had  been  injured  by  the  accident. 

*'We  shall  never  get  to  the  ferry  at  this  rate,"  exclaimed 
the  Enthusiast  as,  two  minutes  after  we  left  the  scene  of  this 
exciting  episode,  another  horse  began  to  jump  about  and 
dance  queer  figures  on  the  narrow  road. 

The  stone  walls  above  the  water  were  draped  fantasti- 
cally with  hides  and  sheepskins  hung  to  dry.  Such  loads  as 
the  peasants  carried!  One  passed  us  with  four  demijohns 
strapped  across  his  broad  shoulders. 

Here  the  Bay  of  Teodo  contracts,  becoming  so  narrow 
that  when  Louis  of  Hungary  was  defending  Cattaro  against 
the  Venetians,  in  1380,  a  chain  was  stretched  from  shore  to 
shore  to  prevent  ships  going  further.  This  strait  is  still 
called  Le  Catene,  and  here  at  the  village  of  Kamenari  we 
were  to  find  the  ferry.  It  was  only  about  half  a  mile  across. 
How  exasperating  it  would  be  to  any  one  desirous  of  pene- 
trating beyond  those  snowy  mountains  to  know  that  on  the 
further  shore  extended  a  beautiful  smooth  road  but  to  have 
no  means  of  reaching  it !  The  water  was  perfectly  calm  and 
of  an  exquisite  blue ;  in  the  distance  an  orange  sail  appeared 
against  the  gray  crags  above  Perasto;  a  whitewashed,  green- 
domed  church  clung  to  the  verdant  hillside;  but  most 
beautiful  of  all  to  our  expectant  eyes,  the  barge,  —  the 
government  barge  !  —  completely  manned  and  \\dth  attend- 
ant tug,  awaited  us  beside  the  quay!  The  officer  in  charge 
was  so  courteous  and  pleasant  that  I  determined  to  risk  my 
request 

191 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

**  Would  there  be  any  objection  to  my  photographing 
the  car  on  board?" 

"Not  the  least,"  he  kindly  responded,  and  the  account 
of  our  crossing  was  soon  registered  on  the  little  black  spool. 

The  actual  sailing  across  that  bit  of  water  took  us  only 
eight  minutes,  but  there  was  some  difficulty  in  getting  the 
heavy  car  aboard,  as  the  gang- way  was  hardly  wide  enough. 
The  prepared  platform  across  the  barge  was  so  short,  too, 
that  the  front  wheels  slipped  off  when  the  big  motor  came 
up  the  slight  incline  under  its  own  power,  banging,  and,  we 
feared,  bending,  the  pan  beneath  and  perhaps  damaging 
the  fly-wheel.  However,  upon  examination,  it  was  found 
that  no  serious  harm  had  been  done.  When  disembarking 
at  Lepetane,  on  the  farther  shore,  no  power  was  applied; 
the  sailors  rolled  it  gently  off  the  barge,  the  chauffeur 
keeping  the  wheel  straight  from  his  seat  in  the  car.  We 
exulted  in  our  successful  voyage,  bade  au  revoir  to  the 
captain  and  his  crew,  and  having  made  an  appointment 
for  a  future  meeting,  sped  away  on  the  fine  road  for 
Cattaro. 

Two  fairy  islands  swam  in  the  bay  before  us,  one  with 
white  walls  about  a  blue-domed  church  and  rounded  cam- 
panile. "It  is  the  pilgrimage  church  of  the  Madonna  dello 
Scalpello,"  called  back  the  Leader,  "and  every  bit  of  earth 
was  brought  there  by  the  faithful,  from  the  mainland.  Year 
after  year  it  grew,  until  this  island  was  formed  on  a  single 
projecting  rock.  The  custom  is  still  continued,  I  believe, 
for  on  the  twenty-second  of  July  of  each  year  a  boat  laden 
with  stone  puts  off  with  much  ceremony   from   Perasto 

192 


ENTERING    MONTENEGRO 

bound  for  this  shrine.  The  other  island  is  the  abandoned 
Benedictine  abbey  of  San  Giorgio."  They  lay  like  jewels 
on  the  water,  guarded  by  the  tiny  town  of  Perasto,  nestling 
at  the  base  of  huge,  bare  Monte  Cassone. 

Then  we  turned  a  sharp  corner  and  the  Gulf  of 
Cattaro  opened  before  us.  Splendid  it  appeared  in  the 
brilliant  May  sunshine,  shadowed  by  the  sharply  outlined 
Montenegrin  mountains,  fringed  by  the  white  houses  of 
many  villages!  An  orange  sail  moved  across  the  glassy 
blue  Soldiers  lent  animation  to  the  scene.  Sentinels 
popped  from  their  boxes  at  the  noise  of  our  approach. 
Every  high  point  held  a  fortress,  and  ranges  for  firearm 
practice  were  plainly  to  be  seen  upon  th'  slopes.  Nothing 
could  be  lovelier  than  this  roadway  which  skirted  the  em- 
bankment beneath  terraced  hillsides,  overflowing  with  olives 
and  grapes  and  other  fruits.  The  Judas  trees  dropped  their 
flower-laden  branches  like  pink  garlands  over  the  gray  walls, 
and  on  a  jutting  rock  above  the  tender  green  of  Springtime 
rose  a  square  white  campanile. 

"That  must  be  gornji,  or  upper,  Stolivo,  I  think,"  said 
the  Leader,  pointing  to  the  graceful  tower. 

On  the  far  side  of  the  bay  bare  peaks  rose  sheer  from 
the  shore,  making  wide  shadows  on  the  water.  "Do  you 
see  that  sharp  white  zig-zag  high  up  on  the  mountain's 
shoulder,  beneath  the  snow  of  Lovcen?"  eagerly  asked  the 
Leader. 

"What?  That  queer  sort  of  gigantic  angular  writing 
on  the  wall?" 

"Yes,  yes,  there  above  Cattaro." 

193 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked,  still  mystified. 

"It  is  our  route,"  he  answered,  laconically,  "into  Monte- 
negro." 

I  shivered  a  little  and  the  Gentle  Lady  whispered,  "I  sup- 
pose it 's  safe." 

"Oh,  people  do  it  every  day,"  I  reassured  her,  boldly! 

"But  not  with  a  motor,"  she  protested. 

"Oh,  well,  it  won't  seem  so  steep  when  we  get  there  —  it 
never  does,  you  know." 

Silently  we  speed  on,  past  Stolivo  donji,  or  lower  Stolivo, 
where  more  soldiers  are  marching  and  drilling  in  the  narrow 
road;  past  the  long-drawn-out  village  of  Perzagno,  where 
an  unfinished  domed  church  and  Venetian  jagades  tell  of 
former  riches.  Around  another  bend  we  course  and  the 
bay  narrows,  the  green  dome  of  Cattaro's  Greek  church 
coming  into  view,  with  the  ancient  castle  picturesquely 
placed  on  an  isolated  peak  above  the  apparently  level  town. 
The  line  of  fortifications  connecting  the  castle  and  town 
runs  up  the  cliff  in  an  amazing  manner  and  blends  with  the 
mountain  rocks  so  perfectly  that  only  its  zig-zag  course  pro- 
claims its  artificiality. 

Here  the  houses  are  almost  continuous  along  the  wayside, 
each  with  a  tiny  harbor  and  a  garden  gay  with  snap-dragons 
and  calendula,  gilly  flowers  and  iris,  snowballs  and  lilacs. 
They  say  that  retired  sailors  live  along  here,  —  an  ideal 
spot  in  which  to  spend  one's  old  age.  Many  bushes  are 
bedecked  with  ribbons,  rags,  and  colored  papers.  Are 
they  remnants  of  the  May  Day  celebration  ?  Locust-trees, 
heavy  with  sweet  flowers,  grow  among  the  vines  on  the  ter- 

194 


ENTERING    MONTENEGRO 

raced  slopes,  myrtle  and  asphodel  spring  up  in  neglected  cor- 
ners. Our  favorite  Bon  Silene  rose  is  also  cherished  here, 
and  toward  the  water  the  forget-me-nots  make  a  carpet  of 
blue. 

But  the  car  stops  —  facing  a  new  dilemma.  The  road 
leads  between  two  houses  which  stand  so  close  together  that 
a  donkey  tethered  beside  one,  in  turning  to  look  at  us,  com- 
pletely blocks  the  way.  Madame,  leaning  from  her  window, 
is  much  amused  and  calls  the  boy,  who  runs  up  the  hill  in 
search  of  the  mule's  master.  Half  of  the  little  hamlet  has 
gathered  before  he  appears,  breathless,  enjoying  the  absurd- 
ity of  the  situation  as  much  as  any  one.  *'Che!  A  great 
highway!"  he  jeers,  —  or  at  least  his  intonations  indicate 
that  meaning  if  his  words  are  in  a  Slavic  tongue.  And  he 
unties  the  donkey  and  holds  him  out  of  harm's  way  while  we 
go  spinning  by. 

We  meet  more  soldiers.  This  time  they  are  carrying 
kerosene  tins  filled  with  water  for  the  morning  mess.  The 
flag  upon  the  castle's  tower  is  flaunting  its  gay  colors  against 
the  gray  cliff  as  we  cross  a  river,  and  just  outside  the  town 
of  Cattaro  come  into  the  highway  leading  to  Montenegro. 

We  have  been  told  that  every  morning,  at  about  eleven, 
a  caravan,  with  supplies  of  all  kinds  for  Montenegro,  starts 
up  the  mountain  and  that  it  would  be  wise  to  get  ahead  of  it 
before  coming  to  the  sharp  turns  and  steep  grades.  I  some- 
times think  that  it  is  just  as  nerve-wearing  an  experience  for 
the  occupants  of  the  automobile  as  for  those  in  the  wagons 
or  carriages  meeting  it,  and  we  always  take  every  known 
precaution  to  avoid  danger.     As  we   turn  sharply  to  the 

195 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

right  to  ascend  the  pass,  it  is,  therefore,  a  satisfaction  to  see 
before  us,  nearly  ready  for  the  ascent,  a  procession  of  four- 
teen large  wagons,  heavily  loaded,  standing  waiting  for 
the  drivers  to  make  their  last  adieux.  Behind  them  come 
numerous  donkeys,  with  well-filled  saddle-bags. 

It  is  really  a  feat  to  pass  them  without  an  accident,  and 
with  all  the  waits  and  caution  possible,  it  takes  us  fully 
five  minutes,  so  that  we  breathe  a  sigh  of  relief  when  we 
face  a  clear  road  and  the  mountain  wall.  Meadows,  pink 
and  blue  and  yellow,  extend  across  the  fertile  valley, 
where  oak-trees  flourish  in  the  midst  of  a  vegetation  truly 
Mediterranean. 

By  four  short  loops  we  reach  Fort  Trinitk,  which,  it 
seemed  but  a  moment  ago,  faced  us  from  the  clouds.  Here 
one  road  leads  to  Badua,  a  Dalmatian  seaport  on  the  Adriatic, 
one  to  Fort  Vrmac,  a  thousand  feet  above  us,  and  the 
other  we  take,  leaving  the  Gulf  of  Cattaro,  where  a  toy 
steamer  has  just  come  into  dock,  and  getting  wonderful 
views  of  snowy  Lovcen,  and  the  Bay  of  Teodo,  and  the  fer- 
tile fields  of  Zupa,  now  freed  from  their  wintry  flood  and 
green  with  their  harvest  of  rice.  Skirting  the  base  of  Fort 
Gorazda,  the  terraced  hollow  leading  down  to  Cattaro 
again  comes  in  sight,  contrasting  with  the  barren  declivi- 
ties of  the  Montenegrin  peaks.  At  each  moment  more  hills, 
more  bays,  more  snow-mountains  seem  to  outline  them- 
selves before  us,  until  we  perceive  the  open  sea  beyond 
Castelnuovo  and  can  trace  our  route  as  on  a  map  in  the 
wonderful  panorama. 

After  crossing  the  empty  bed  of  the  mountain  torrent, 

196 


ENTERING    MONTENEGRO 

Zvironjak,  we  soon  commence  the  angular  loops  upon  the 
shoulder  of  the  mountain,  which  is  so  bare,  so  devoid  of 
vegetation,  that  they  can  be  seen  plainly  for  ten  miles,  at 
least.  It  is  a  windless  day  and  warm;  the  range  of  snow- 
capped mountains  seems  unreal.  Fort  Trinita  lies  far 
below  us.  The  grade  is  not  so  steep,  but  there  is  not  a  breath 
of  air  and  not  a  drop  of  water  to  be  had. 

We  rest  our  heated  engine  and  throw  off  our  wraps.  The 
Adriatic  sparkles  in  the  noon  sunshine  beyond  a  range  of 
mottled  mountains.  A  curtained  carriage  passes  from  which 
peeps  a  woman's  red-capped  head  above  her  brilliant  neck- 
erchief and  apron.  More  loops  and  ever  more  extended 
views  until  we  come  to  a  road-maker's  house,  where  pre- 
cious water  can  be  obtained.  How  marvellous  it  must  be 
actually  to  live  perched  up  on  such  a  height  with  such  a  tre- 
mendous landscape  before  one ! 

As  we  wait  for  the  radiator  to  be  filled,  a  woman  ap- 
pears in  the  doorway  and  we  look  at  each  other  curiously. 
She  does  not  lack  for  color  among  these  gray  rocks.  Her 
bright  plaid  skirt  and  red-striped  waist  are  intensified  by  a 
scarlet  neckerchief  and  white  head-covering. 

Unseen  songsters  trill  their  music  in  this  rocky  waste, 
and,  from  the  crags,  as  we  go  on,  a  flock  of  large,  black 
birds,  startled  by  our  approach,  wheel  and  sail  overhead, 
coming  so  near  that  we  can  see  their  wing  feathers  free  at 
the  outer  edge. 

"Can  you  count  them?"  I  cry.  "I  should  think  there 
must  be  forty." 

''What  are  they?"  asks  the  Leader. 

197 


MOTORING    IN  THE    BALKANS 

''I  am  not  sure,"  I  answer.  ''Possibly  vultures.  I 
must  see  whether  there  is  a  book  on  the  birds  of  this  region." 

Waiting  two  minutes  to  enable  a  carriage  to  pass  us,  we 
ascend  five  steep  windings,  and  a  seemingly  interminable 
number  of  them  confront  us.  I  believe  that  there  are  sixty- 
eight  altogether.  The  panorama  increases  in  sublime  gran- 
deur as  we  mount  upward.  Black  and  white  terns  are 
abundant  and  we  catch  the  flash  of  white  feathers,  denot- 
ing vesper  sparrows  or  mountain  juncos.  Then  passing  a 
resonant  cavern,  we  wait  six  minutes  while  some  Monte- 
negrin horses  become  acquainted  with  our  automobile  and 
are  willing  to  be  led  by.  The  riders  are  gorgeously  attired 
in  blue,  baggy  trousers,  red  short  coat,  red  and  yellow 
striped  sash,  white  socks,  and  blue  shoes,  and  the  red 
cap  embroidered  with  the  golden  monogram,  "N.  I."  in 
Greek  letters,  which  all  loyal  Montenegrins  wear.  For 
we  are  now  in  Montenegro,  having  passed  the  Austrian 
boundary  a  moment  ago,  and  soon  we  reach  the  top  of  the 
pass  (3051  feet). 

"It  has  taken  us  just  an  hour  and  a  half  to  rise  so  high 
in  the  world,"  exclaims  the  Enthusiast,  as  we  sweep  around 
the  shoulder  of  Lovcen  and,  leaving  the  forts  and  endless 
windings  of  our  route,  leaving  the  imposing  and  rock-ridged 
peninsula  of  Vrmac  between  two  bays  of  the  Bocche,  leav- 
ing the  gray  mountains  of  Krivosije  toward  Ragusa  and 
the  sparkling  Adriatic,  we  descend  into  a  stony  high  plateau 
and  get  our  first  impressions  of  Montenegro.  The  roadbed 
is  distinctly  rough,  the  landscape  barren  beyond  words,  but 
with  a  grandeur  of  vast  towering  heights  and  great  snowfields, 

198 


iMii-../^' 


i0^J; 


"-•'>>- 


•v:«iiS^,| 


IHK    JIoTKL    AT    XJKdCS,    MoXl'F.MU  iRO 
CKTIXJE    FRCJM    THE    IIOl'KL    \VIXIK)\V 


ENTERING    MONTENEGRO 

the  mighty  peaks  of  Lovcen  rise  into  the  clouds.  In  scat- 
tered coves  small  patches  of  young  oaks  are  growing,  and  in 
queer  circular  fields  the  men  are  ploughing,  a  woman  twirls 
her  distaff  as  she  walks,  boys  in  white  lamb's-wool  clothes 
take  ofif  their  red  caps  as  we  approach,  standing  at  attention 
in  military  fashion. 

The  straggling  village  of  Njegus  is  soon  passed  and 
the  simple  summer  home  of  the  reigning  dynasty  pointed 
out.  It  is  a  curious  country  which  lies  behind  us  as  we 
begin  to  climb  over  the  pass  of  Krivacko  Zdrjelo  (4298 
feet).  The  low  houses  are  roofed  with  flat,  overlapping 
stones,  the  green  crater-like  fields  are  enclosed  with  stone 
walls,  and  round,  paved  spaces,  evidently  threshing  floors, 
are  also  surrounded  by  rough  boulders;  from  this  gray 
basin  rise  bleak  and  sterile  hillsides,  beyond  which  extend 
the  eternal  snows  of  Lovcen.  Here,  evidently,  the  women 
are  not  mere  butterflies  of  fashion,  nor  kept  secluded  in  a 
place  apart.  They  have  the  freedom  of  the  open  fields,  and 
should  the  fancy  seize  them,  may  walk  down  the  stony 
mountain  paths  with  barrels  of  water  on  their  backs.  We 
know  this,  for  we  saw  them  doing  it. 

In  four  long  loops  we  continue  our  ascent,  interested  in 
each  new  bird  or  wild  flower.  At  a  wayside  trough,  where 
precious  water  is  abundant,  we  again  give  our  faithful  motor 
a  drink,  and  making  one  more  loop  attain  the  top  of  the  pass. 
What  a  marvellous,  overwhelming,  and  different  panorama 
now  extends  below  us  on  this  day  of  great  sensations!  We 
realize,  as  never  before,  the  tremendous  age  of  Mother 
Earth,  so  wrinkled  and  creased,  so  haggard  and  worn  are 

199 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

her  features.  There  is  no  smooth  surface  anywhere,  only 
broken  heaps  of  rock  in  inconceivable  disorder,  chain  after 
chain  of  distant  peaks,  and  on  the  horizon  a  long  range  of 
snow-covered  mountains. 

''That  is  Albania,"  cries  the  Leader,  when  we  have 
taken  breath,  "and  there  —  do  you  see  it  sparkle  ?  —  lies 
the  Lake  of  Scutari." 

Near  us  the  Karst  is  dappled  with  the  shadows  of  flying 
clouds;  forests  of  budding  beeches  and  small  oaks  lend  color 
to  the  scene,  and  a  bird's  song,  rich,  full,  and  free,  adds  the 
last  touch  to  our  satiated  senses. 

We  descend  rapidly  by  sharp  and  narrow  windings, 
passing  picturesque  thatched  houses  and  peasants  in  grace- 
ful costumes.  Soon  Cetinje  comes  in  sight,  surrounded 
by  soft  blue  peaks  set  off  by  snow-capped  heights,  and  in 
the  distance  Scutari.  More  windings  and  twists  and  short 
turns  down,  above  a  valley  mapped  into  green  and  brown 
fields  separated  by  gray  stone  walls ! 

A  treeless  highway  leads  straight  into  a  red-roofed  city. 
It  is  Cetinje.  The  men  working  in  the  fields  rise  and  salute 
us;  the  little  boys  doff  their  caps,  stand  very  straight,  and 
bow  from  the  waist  down,  deeply;  the  little  girls  drop  a 
timid  and  graceful  curtsey.  Do  they  think  us  the  royal 
family?  For  motor  clothes  are  a  complete  disguise,  and 
royalty  alone  owns  automobiles  in  Montenegro. 

By  the  time  we  arrive  at  the  door  of  the  comfortable 
hotel  we  are  quite  ready  for  our  luncheon,  and  to  our  joy 
discover  that  French  ideals  reign  in  the  kitchen.  Only  the 
Turkish  coffee  reminds  us  that  we  are  really  in  the  Orient 


CHAPTER  XIX 
CETINJE 

'*  A  RE  you  tired?"  asked  the  Enthusiast,  as  we  went  up 
to  our  rooms. 

"No,  I  'm  not  particularly  tired,"  answered  Madame 
Content,  "but  I  think  we  ought  to  rest  a  little  before  seeing 
anything  more,  don't  you?" 

It  seemed  a  waste  of  time  to  rest  when  such  opportuni- 
ties were  within  our  grasp.  But  there  was  no  law  against 
looking  out  of  the  window,  and  that  alone  might  well  keep 
one  interested  for  hours.  It  is  a  continuous  mediaeval  cele- 
bration, a  succession  of  brilliant  pictures  on  a  stage  setting 
of  soft  tans  and  greens,  with  the  billowy  blue  hills  rising 
beyond  the  red-tiled  houses. 

How  truly  splendid  the  men  appear,  sauntering  down  the 
broad  avenue  in  all  the  bravery  of  scarlet  and  blue,  with 
gold  embroidery  and  hanging  cloaks !  When  they  approach 
there  is  a  dazzling  effect  of  gorgeous  color,  when  they  turn 
away  the  sun  goes  with  them.  But  for  their  stern  coun- 
tenances and  long  revolvers  thrust  carelessly  through  the 
broad  sashes,  they  seem  just  ready  to  go  on  for  private 
theatricals.  The  universal  round  scarlet  cap  bound  with 
black  "as  a  sign  of  mourning  for  the  loss  of  Servian  free- 
dom," with  the  Prince's  initials  in  gold  within  a  rainbow, 
is  very  becoming  to  these  handsome  men,  and  their  uni- 
forms of  dark  blue,  or  pale  blue,  or  white,  show  off  to  per- 

20I 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

fection  their  magnificent  physique.  One  sees  no  European 
clothes  except  on  the  occasional  foreigner.  Only  rarely 
a  wheeled  vehicle  of  any  kind  appears  in  the  broad  avenue, 
but  six  and  eight  abreast  the  officers,  marked  by  their 
clanking  Russian  swords,  walk  leisurely  up  and  down, 
objects  of  admiration  indeed.  Do  the  women  peer  at  them 
from  behind  the  blinds  of  the  pale  pink  and  green  stucco 
houses?  —  for  no  ladies  are  to  be  seen  in  public. 

A  countryman  drives  his  rebelling  pigs  before  him 
toward  his  home  outside  the  city.  He  has  his  hands  full, 
for  there  are  eight  of  them  and  they  have  eight  minds  among 
them.  His  long  white  coat-tails  fly  in  the  breeze  as  he 
strides  after  one  or  the  other,  while  he  uses  the  end  of  his 
brown  struka  as  a  whip  to  guide  them.  One  man  with  a 
plough  on  his  shoulder  walks  behind  a  yoke  of  oxen ;  has  he 
sold  his  wagon  in  the  market-place  ?  A  group  of  Albanians 
in  their  tight,  white  trousers,  with  black  applique,  red  jackets, 
and  white  fezes  amble  into  town  on  donkeys.  A  man  climbs 
up  his  ladder  placed  against  the  post,  his  kerosene  can  on 
his  shoulder;  he  carefully  wipes  the  chimney  with  a  clean 
rag,  fills  the  lamp,  and  descends,  to  repeat  his  task  all  down 
the  street,  for  not  even  gas  has  come  to  illuminate  this 
quaint  little  capital. 

"Is n't  it  time  for  a  walk?"  asks  a  voice  at  the  door,  and 
we  hasten  to  make  ready. 

Placed  at  the  end  of  the  main  street  of  the  town,  the 
Katunska  Ulica,  the  hotel  commands  its  whole  length.  Still 
farther  to  the  south  are  the  newly  laid  out  park  and  the 
palace  of  the  Crown  Prince.    The  royal  palace  of  Prince 


CETINJE 

Nicola  I.  is  on  a  street  to  the  left,  an  unpretentious,  com- 
fortable-looking, large,  sunny  building,  with  a  tiny  balcony 
over  the  main  entrance  and  a  beautiful  garden  at  the  back. 
Opposite  is  the  palace  of  Prince  Mirko,  the  second  son,  who 
married  Nathalie,  the  daughter  of  Colonel  Constantinovich, 
the  senior  representative  of  the  Obrenovitch  dynasty, 
formerly  rulers  of  Servia.  Their  son,  the  baby  Michael,  is, 
owing  to  the  childlessness  of  the  Crown  Prince,  the  heir 
presumptive  to  the  crown  of  Montenegro.  Prince  Mirko  is 
much  liked  everywhere. 

"Wonderfully  gifted  as  a  poet,  a  composer,  and  a  musi- 
cian, adept  in  all  manly  sports,  high-spirited  and  at  the 
same  time  sunny- tempered,  having,  moreover,  managed  to 
keep  his  name  clear  of  all  those  scandals  in  which  his  elder 
brother  has  been  implicated,  he  has  always  been  the  best 
loved  child  of  his  parents,  the  favorite  brother  of  his  sister, 
the  Queen  of  Italy,  and  the  most  popular  member  of  his 
house  among  his  people." 

A  little  farther  on  in  the  sunny  street  is  a  fortress-like 
building  called  the  Biljardo,  the  old  palace,  now  used  for  a 
supreme  court,  a  grammar  school,  and  various  administra- 
tive offices.  Beyond  it,  at  the  base  of  the  Orlov  Krs,  is  the 
historic  monastery  of  the  Virgin,  with  its  dignified  little 
church,  a  square  campanile,  and  the  burial  place  of 
the  Petrovic  dynasty  On  the  very  top  of  the  hill,  a  gilded 
dome  protects  the  tomb  of  Danilo  II.,  who  was  assassinated 
on  the  quay  at  Cattaro  in  i860.  He  was  the  uncle  and  pre- 
decessor of  the  present  Prince.  The  view  from  that  point 
of  the  little  city,  in  the  midst  of  green  fields  surrounded  by 

203 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

bare  mountain  peaks,  is  beautiful  in  the  sunset  and  we  were 
well  repaid  for  our  climb. 

The  principality  of  Montenegro  was  founded  by  the  few 
Servians  who  fled  to  these  Black  Mountains  when  the  Turks 
conquered  Servia  in  the  fourteenth  century.  Here  they  have 
maintained  their  independence  with  astonishing  skill  and 
courage.  Every  Montenegrin,  be  he  old  or  young,  belongs 
to  the  army  and  can  be  relied  upon  to  fight  for  his  country  in 
time  of  need.  But  it  was  only  in  1878  that  by  the  treaty  of 
Berlin  this  principality  was  recognized  by  the  Powers  and 
the  two  seaports  of  Antivari  and  Dulcigno  assured  to  them. 
The  progressive  policy  and  accomplishments  of  the  present 
ruler,  his  simplicity  and  good  judgment,  have  not  only  made 
him  dear  to  his  own  people,  but  won  for  him  the  respect  of 
Europe.  He  introduced  an  improved  code  of  laws  in  1888, 
and  by  sanctioning  the  new  route  from  Dalmatia,  made  it 
possible  and  pleasant  for  strangers  to  visit  this  interesting 
country.  Only  3500  square  miles  in  area,  it  contains  a  quar- 
ter of  a  million  of  inhabitants,  and  when  one  realizes  the 
stony  character  of  the  soil,  the  severe  climate,  the  conditions 
under  which  they  labor,  one  cannot  but  admire  the  loyalty, 
the  courage,  and  the  kindness  of  this  splendid  mountain 
race. 

"My  brain  is  just  as  full  of  new  impressions  as  it  can 
possibly  hold,"  I  asserted,  boldly,  as  we  meandered  home- 
ward in  the  twilight.     "How  grateful  the  darkness  will  be!" 

But  with  the  blessed  light  of  a  new  day  fatigue  had 
dropped  from  me  and  I  was  eager  as  ever  for  novel  sights 
and  experiences.     It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  a  brilliantly 

204 


CETINJE 

marked  songster  in  the  sycamore  close  to  my  window  had 
awakened  me.  Between  the  stuccoed  houses  the  same  gayly 
attired  crowd  sauntered  slowly,  four  or  five  abreast.  But 
in  the  distance  appeared  a  white  charger  —  no  mere  horse 
could  look  so  dignified  nor  bear  his  trappings  with  such 
noble  grace.  Salutes  and  lifted  caps  told  of  some  personage, 
and  I  watched  as  he  approached  deliberately  down  the  long 
avenue.  He  was  a  portly  gentleman,  of  splendid  stature, 
with  white  hair  and  iron-gray  moustache.  Over  his  coat  of 
robin's-egg  blue  he  wore  a  sleeveless  scarlet  jacket,  elabor- 
ately embroidered  in  gold;  his  crimson  velvet  saddle  cloth 
was  wonderfully  beautiful,  too,  but  his  cap  was  the  same 
that  the  subjects  wore,  although  this  was  the  Prince.  With  a 
benevolent  smile  he  greeted  his  people,  and  passing  under 
my  window,  enjoying  his  cigarette,  he  disappeared  toward 
the  mountains. 

"I'm  afraid  the  car  won't  look  very  well  to-morrow 
morning,  sir,"  I  hear  in  muffled  accents  outside  my  door, 
"for  they  're  afraid  I  '11  spot  the  clothes.  But  I  '11  do  the 
best  I  can." 

My  curiosity  is  aroused. 

"Where  is  the  garage  here?"  I  ask  at  breakfast. 

"Come  and  see."  And  through  the  spotless  kitchen  I 
am  led  out  into  a  small  yard  hung  thickly  with  the  weekly 
wash. 

"Don't  they  ever  take  it  in?"  I  ask  the  chauffeur, 
after  we  have  unearthed  the  motor  in  its  midst. 

"If  they  do,  another  set  is  put  out  right  away,"  he  an- 
swers, "and  of  course,  with  just  a  pail  and  a  cloth  you  can't 

205 


MOTORING   IN    THE    BALKANS 

make  it  look  very  well."  And  he  regarded  with  dis- 
tinct disfavor  his  precious  car.  "There  are  six  cats  in 
this  yard,  too,  and  they  all  live  in  the  automobile,"  he 
drawls. 

Evidently  he  does  not  take  the  same  rosy  view  of  out-of- 
the-way  places  that  we  do.  But  this  was,  I  must  say,  as 
near  finding  fault  as  he  ever  came.  Resourceful  and  deter- 
mined, adaptable,  punctual,  and  keen,  quick  to  act  in  time 
of  need,  quiet  and  respectful,  he  contributed  much  to  our 
comfort  in  this  tour  through  strange  lands. 

We  join  the  sauntering  groups  on  the  broad  avenue  and 
admire  anew  the  festive  throng.  Some  of  the  long  coats  are 
bottle  green,  some  lined  with  red,  some  have  an  extra  jacket 
hooked  to  the  shoulders.  Many  drape  about  them  the 
long  fringed  struka,  a  native  shawl  of  a  rich  brown  shade, 
touched  here  and  there  with  brilliant  tones,  ending  with  "a 
long  flowing  fringe  of  various  colored  wools  in  knots  and 
tassels.  This  fringe  swings  heavily  from  side  to  side  as  they 
walk,  nearly  sweeping  the  ground,  and  giving  the  wearers  a 
very  magnificent  and  stately  air."  If  not  needed  it  hangs 
from  the  shoulders ;  if  it  rains  it  is  put  over  their  heads  and 
protects  them  perfectly;  if  cold  it  is  wrapped  around  them 
in  graceful  folds.  The  men  wear  their  rich  sashes  over 
their  wool  coats,  but  the  women  let  the  coats  hang  free. 
We  are  fortunate  enough  to  see  one  lady  in  the  national 
costume.  Her  white  wool  skirt  is  made  with  a  deep  flounce, 
possibly  in  deference  to  European  ideas,  the  long  sleeveless 
cloth  coat  of  an  exquisite  robin's-egg  blue  is  worn  over  a  thin 
white  blouse  with  tight  sleeves  and  trimmed  with  bands  of 

206 


THF.    SlRl'KA 


MfJx\l'E\EGRI.\    ( )1'MCERS 


CETINJE 

embroidery.     A  black  lace  veil  falls  from  her  braided  hair 
and  she  carries  a  white  parasol. 

One  morning  as  we  walked  idly  down  the  Katunska  in 
the  dazzling  white  light,  which  reminded  us  of  Greece,  we 
saw  a  long  line  of  soldiers  drawn  up  outside  the  door  of  a 
small  church. 

"It  is  the  service  in  the  court  chapel,"  replied  a  guard 
at  the  palace,  on  being  questioned. 

"Is  the  Prince  there,  too?" 

"5i,  Signora,^^  he  answered. 

"Will  there  be  any  objection  to  my  kodaking  him?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  kept  his  eyes  on  my  little 
black  box  as  I  sat  upon  a  friendly  boulder,  patiently  awaiting 
the  completion  of  the  service.  It  was  but  a  step  from 
church  to  palace,  and  a  pretty  sight  when  the  Prince  appeared 
between  his  two  daughters,  walking  across  the  square,  and 
followed  by  his  escort  of  officers  and  a  company  of  soldiers. 
Upon  gaining  his  balcony,  he  turned  and  stood  quietly 
attentive,  smoking  his  cigarette  as  the  men,  carrying  no 
arms  except  the  inevitable  revolver  thrust  through  the  belt, 
marched  by  into  the  garden  of  the  palace.  There  was  no 
music,  no  attempt  at  display,  only  the  regular  Sunday  morn- 
ing ceremonial,  very  charming  to  see. 

A  handsome  young  fellow,  moulded  into  his  spotless 
uniform,  dangling  his  white  kid  gloves,  hurried  up  the  steps 
as  the  Prince  went  within. 

"Do  you  think  that  was  Prince  Pierre  ?"  cried  the  Enthu- 
siast. 

"It  might  be,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

207 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

"It  certainly  resembled  his  photographs,"  responded  the 
Enthusiast,  ''and  I  think  it  was." 

'*0h,  if  your  kodak  would  only  take  color,"  exclaimed, 
for  the  hundredth  time,  the  Gentle  Lady. 

"7/,  indeed!"  I  answered.  "When  that  happy  time 
comes,  —  just  think!  We  shall  have  to  go  all  around  the 
world  again  to  get  fresh  pictures.' 

In  the  afternoon  a  mihtary  band  marched  gayly  by  our 
windows,  playing  strange  music  with  agreeable  skill,  and 
went  on  into  the  park  to  give  the  usual  Sunday  concert. 
But  we  had  other  projects.  From  the  old  Turkish  battery 
on  the  hill  we  had  seen  a  long  white  road,  beginning  behind 
the  hospital  on  the  edge  of  the  town  and  gradually  ascend- 
ing a  low  ridge  to  the  top,  where  it  disappeared. 

"That  must  be  the  way  to  Rjeka,"  mused  the  Leader. 
"I  wonder  how  good  the  road  is." 

"The  only  way  to  find  out  is  to  go  and  see,"  somewhat 
mockingly  replied  the  Enthusiast. 

So  after  luncheon  a  small  carriage,  drawn  by  three 
horses,  appeared  at  the  door  and  we  trotted  briskly  through 
the  short  streets  of  the  tiny  city  until  the  long  ascent  began. 
We  missed  the  steady  upward  motion  of  the  automobile, 
but  we  had  all  the  more  leisure  to  watch  the  sights  about  us 
as  we  rose  above  the  regularly  built  and  dignified  little  city. 
We  passed  many  country  people  who  greeted  us  with  cour- 
teous salutes;  the  older  peasants,  especially,  were  punctil- 
iously polite,  the  young  women  shy  and  with  downcast 
eyes.  Swinging  up  the  long  hill  were  well-dressed  city 
folk,  —  this    was    evidently    a    favorite   promenade   when 

208 


CETINJE 

more  exercise  was  needed  than  the  broad  Katunska 
afforded. 

At  the  top  of  the  ridge,  beyond  the  small  inn,  we  de- 
scended to  an  elbow  curving  toward  the  east,  and  there  we 
obtained  a  splendid  view  of  the  Lake  of  Scutari  and  the 
snow-capped  Albanian  Alps.  The  Leader's  enthusiasm  was 
undiminished  by  the  surfeit  of  landscapes  on  which  we  had 
feasted  the  day  before. 

"The  Lake  of  Scutari,"  I  murmured.  "I  associate  it 
with  tales  of  the  Orient.  It  does  not  seem  possible  that 
we  are  actually  looking  down  upon  it.  It  occupies  a 
neighboring  cell  in  my  memory  to  the  Vale  of  Cashmere 
and  Lalla  Rookh!  The  very  words  Albania,  Macedonia, 
mean  to  me  romance  and  strange  adventure." 

"We  could  just  as  well  have  come  in  the  automobile," 
interrupted  the  Leader,  "and  then  we  could  have  run  on 
down  to  Rjeka.     The  road  looks  very  good." 

"Why  can't  we  drive  down ?  It  is  only  eight  and  a  half 
miles  from  Cetinje,  the  book  says." 

"Yes,  but  it  is  2000  feet  below  it,  and  think  of  the  climb 
back!    We  would  not  be  home  before  midnight." 

The  valley  immediately  below  us  is  bleak  and  stony  and 
sterile,  and  as  we  slowly  wend  our  way  back  to  the  tiniest 
capital  in  Europe  a  crescent  moon  hangs  in  the  western  sky, 
with  Venus  brilliant  above  it.  This  star  and  crescent  is  not 
our  only  reminder  of  the  Turks  in  these  parts.  In  their  new 
museums  are  many  trophies  and  flags,  swords,  cannon,  and 
pistols,  taken  from  their  hereditary  foes  by  the  small  Monte- 
negrin army.     One  native  gun  is  of  enormous  length  and  is 

209 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

said,  in  the  hands  of  a  famous  hero,  to  have  held  at  bay 
three  hundred  Turks.  Three  times  even  within  the  last  cen- 
tury have  the  Turks  invaded  this  ''troublesome  country," 
but  after  their  last  severe  defeat  at  Grahovo,  in  1858,  they 
ceased  to  molest  the  Montenegrins. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BACK   INTO    DALMATIA 

XT  was  the  most  beautiful,  clear,  crisp  morning  when  we 
left  the  attractive  little  capital  of  Montenegro  and 
started  on  our  long  drive  back  over  the  Black  Mountains 
into  Dalmatia.  The  streets  were  filled  with  the  same  gay 
throng.  Indeed,  by  half-past  five  there  were  already  four 
groups  of  men  walking  up  and  down  in  heavy  overcoats, 
although  the  sun  was  sparkling,  and  as  we  left  the  hotel 
door  v/e  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Prince  on  his  white  charger, 
getting  his  morning  exercise. 

The  snowy  heights  of  Lovcen  rose  straight  before  us  at 
the  end  of  the  road,  as  if  to  prevent  our  passage.  Soon 
after  we  began  our  winding  ascent  the  mortuary  chapel  of 
Prince  Peter  II.  could  be  plainly  seen  in  the  midst  of  glitter- 
ing fields  on  its  summit.  Near  the  guard  house  at  Krstac, 
from  where  the  ascent  of  Lovcen  is  often  made,  we  encoun- 
tered a  shepherd  in  the  raggedest  outfit  I  have  ever  seen 
hold  together,  but  he  swung  a  silver- handled  umbrella  as  he 
walked  along,  and  through  his  sash  was  thrust  a  revolver  of 
beautiful  workmanship. 

The  loops  seemed  even  steeper  than  we  remembered 
them  and  the  turns  shorter.  When  it  was  necessary  to  back 
to  get  around,  and  there  happened  to  be  no  parapet  to  the 
road  and  the  distance  down  was  many  hundred  feet  of 
sheer  rock,  our  sensations  were  grewsome!  But  we  had 
gained  the  top  of  Krivacko  Zdrjelo  in  thirty- nine  minutes 

211 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

from  the  hotel,  and  looking  down  the  long  winding  on  the 
other  side,  discovered  the  daily  diligence  before  us. 

"They  must  have  started  about  five  o'clock,  I  should 
think,"  remarked  Madame  Content,  "and  what  time  do 
you  suppose  they  get  to  Cattaro?" 

"Easily  enough  for  luncheon." 

"I  am  thankful  we  could  get  the  motor  across,"  she 
answered,  and  sank  back  with  new  appreciation  of  her  bless- 
ings, as  we  slid  by  the  dusty  diligence  and  saw  Njegus  in  the 
rocky  basin  below. 

When  we  stopped  at  the  hotel  to  procure  a  picture  of  the 
Prince's  birthplace,  we  discovered  that  one  of  our  extra  tins 
of  gasoline,  taken  in  case  of  need,  had  become  loosened  by 
the  tremendous  jolting  and  had  slipped  somewhere  down  the 
mountain-side. 

"I  do  hope  some  one  will  find  it,"  commented  the  Leader, 
looking  back  searchingly  along  the  bare  highway.  "Won't 
there  be  a  celebration  when  a  twelve-litre  tin  of  gasoline  is 
picked  up  among  the  boulders?"  And  he  thought  of  the 
ragged  shepherd  with  his  silver  heirlooms. 

Across  the  stony  valley  we  rolled,  and  in  seven  min- 
utes we  were  on  the  top  of  the  second  pass,  with  again  the 
wonderful  prospect  of  the  Bocche  and  mountains  surround- 
ing it.  The  marvellous  beauty  of  this  indescribable  scene 
impressed  us  anew.  The  shadows  of  the  morning  seemed 
to  give  an  entirely  different  impression  from  the  flat  noon- 
light  in  which  we  had  seen  it.  Beyond  the  Kjstac  grotto 
the  extraordinary  highway  lay  in  apparently  careless  folds 
on  the  side  of  the  bare  mountain.    Twenty-six  different 

212 


BACK    INTO    DALMATIA 

levels  we  could  clearly  count  before  it  was  lost  in  the  ver- 
dant valley  back  of  Cattaro.  We  left  Montenegro  behind 
us  and  all  our  senses  were  absorbed  by  the  new  phases  of 
the  route. 

The  Bay  of  Traste  beyond  the  green  Zupa  valley  came 
nearer.  And  now  at  almost  every  turn  we  were  forced  to 
back.  What  confidence  it  implies  in  your  chauffeur  and 
your  car  when  you  can  sit  calmly  poised  on  the  outer  edge 
of  awful  abysses  waiting  for  the  right  lever  to  be  touched, 
which  means  a  gentle  impulse  forward  around  the  short 
curve !  It  is  never  wise  to  think  of  what  would  surely  hap- 
pen if  the  wrong  lever  were  pulled ! 

Coasting  quietly  down  the  steep  incline  with  the  reas- 
suring brake  to  control  our  flight,  the  Gulf  of  Cattaro,  fringed 
with  the  white  houses  and  tiny  enclosed  harbors  of  happy 
sailors,  stood  forth  sharply  in  the  brilliant  sunshine.  The 
yellow  green  tufts  of  the  bush  spurge  {Euphorbia  biglandu- 
losa)  were  a  distinctive  feature  of  these  rock-strewn  slopes, 
the  spiny-toothed  eryngiums  and  thistles  sprang  from  mass- 
es of  fine  debris,  and  here  in  rank  abundance  grew  the 
curious  plant  known  as  "Christ's  thorn"  (Paliurus  acetalus), 
for  it  is  supposed  to  be  the  one  of  which  the  crown  of 
thorns  was  made. 

We  slipped  by  the  water  fountain  at  the  wayside,  by  the 
sheer  rock  of  Fort  Gorazda,  by  the  sentinels  at  Fort  Trinity, 
and  descended  to  the  green  valley  before  the  caravan  had 
formed.  Then  bowling  merrily  along  the  smooth,  level 
avenue,  by  Perzagno  and  the  two  Stolivos,  we  came  to  where 
Perasto,  on  the  opposite  shore,  with  its  pointed  campanile, 

313 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

its  overshadowing  precipice,  and  its  commanding  fortifica- 
tions, was  perfectly  reflected  in  the  glassy  water. 

With  a  farewell  glance  at  the  Gulf  of  Cattaro,  at  the 
cypresses  and  straight,  gray  walls  of  San  Giorgio  and  her 
sister  islet  "floating  like  the  flat  leaves  of  the  water-lily  on 
the  surface  of  the  bay,"  we  turned  into  the  narrow  straits 
of  Le  Catene  and  pulled  up  on  the  tiny  quay  at  Lepetane. 
It  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock  and  we  had  an  hour  to  wait.  Sit- 
ting under  the  spreading  mulberry-trees,  in  the  soft  air 
away  from  the  heat  of  the  sun,  we  could  not  choose  a  quieter, 
lovelier  spot. 

"May  I  change  my  kodak  spool  in  here?"  I  asked,  as  I 
looked  in  at  an  open  door  of  a  plain  stone  house  adjoining 
the  quay.  I  had  seen  that  there  was  another  door  directly 
opposite,  which  served  to  light  the  dark  interior.  A  counter 
ran  across  one  side,  with  bottles  and  boxes  of  various  kinds 
displayed  on  shelves  to  the  ceiling.  Behind  the  counter  a 
little  dried-up,  sweet-faced  woman  looked  mystified.  I  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  chairs  before  the  tables  on  the  other  side 
of  the  shop  and  began  my  work.  As  soon  as  she  understood 
that  she  had  nothing  to  furnish  in  the  way  of  photographic 
material  she  was  relieved  and  most  hospitable. 

"Prego,  Signora,''  she  continually  interpolated.  I 
racked  my  brain  and  searched  the  shelves  for  something 
I  could  buy. 

"Have  you  any  cartoline?^^ 

^'Illustrate?''  And  such  a  medley  of  tinsel  and  actresses 
as  she  produced! 

"  But  of  Lepetane  ?    The  Bocche  ?" 

214 


BACK    INTO    DALMATIA 

''Non  c'<^,"  she  cheerfully  remarked.  "It  is  too  small 
a  village." 

"Wouldn't  Madame  Hke  to  rest  her  while  waiting?" 
And  a  sister  conducted  us  up  a  steep,  bare,  clean  little  stair- 
way to  a  spotless  room,  where  bunches  of  lilacs  in  vases 
on  the  stand  captured  our  hearts.  She  closed  the  small 
windows  and  set  forth  chairs,  but  we  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  garden  on  this  level  and  looked  out  so  eagerly  that  there, 
too,  we  were  allowed  to  wander.  The  turnips  and  lettuce, 
the  roses  and  lilacs,  all  grew  in  friendly  company;  a  tiny 
place  with  paths  carefully  marked  by  stones,  a  screened 
yard  for  the  chickens,  about  as  big  as  a  dining-room  table, 
and  beyond  the  stone  wall  the  blue  waters  of  the  Bocche, 
with  snowy  mountains  still  farther  away.  The  friendly 
soul  searched  the  garden  for  the  best  rose  and  placed  a 
crimson  wall  flower  in  the  bunch  of  lilacs  with  which  she 
presented  us.  These  two  gentle  sisters  were  ready  to  do 
for  us  whatever  they  could;  they  did  not  intrude,  but  were 
plainly  interested  in  our  curious  doings. 

The  huge  mulberries  shading  the  tiny  port;  the  pink 
roses  hanging  over  the  creamy  stone  walls  in  lavish  pro- 
fusion ;  the  steep  paths  of  steps  straight  up  the  hill  to  other 
streets  and  houses  perched  among  the  olive  orchards;  an 
occasional  kerchiefed  damsel  with  copper  jar  coming  after 
water  to  the  well;  a  ferryman  calling  in  musical  cadence 
from  his  boat;  a  passing  black  craft,  low,  with  draped  sail, 
propelled  by  standing  men  at  long  oars;  —  what  pictures 
one  could  get !  But  plainly,  in  three  languages  -^  in  Ger- 
man,   in   Italian,   in    French  —  was    "Warnung"    set   up 

215 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

on  a  conspicuous  pole.  "No  photographing  about  the 
Bocche." 

After  an  hour  of  impatient  contemplation  of  this  sign- 
post, a  soldier  appeared  who  either  just  happened  along  or 
was  sent  to  watch  my  poor  little  innocent  box.  I  immedi- 
ately took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  and  asked  him  to 
kindly  tell  me  to  whom  I  must  apply  to  secure  permission 
to  kodak  our  motor  standing  helpless  before  that  narrow 
strait.  I  thought  that  opened  negotiations  very  diplomat- 
ically. He  looked  perfectly  blank.  He  knew  no  Italian. 
Again  my  good  friend,  the  mistress  of  the  shop,  came  to  my 
aid  and  translated  into  Slavic  my  request.  The  officer  in 
charge  was  away.  As  the  good  dame  addressed  him  most 
respectfully  as  "Sergeant"  I  asked  her  to  see  if  he  thought 
there  would  be  any  objections  to  my  pictures.  He  assured 
her  that  if  the  Madame  kept  her  camera  "pointed  to  the 
earth"  it  would  be  all  right,  but  as  to  the  heights,  "Nay, 
nay." 

I  cannot  see  now  why  those  green  and  gray  hillsides 
should  be  forbidden  to  me  —  the  modern  forts  all  look  so 
exactly  alike.  However,  I  respected  his  prejudices  and 
confined  my  attention  to  the  "earth." 

A  demure  little  girl  of  about  eleven,  dressed  in  black  and 
with  neatly  braided  hair  and  long  downcast  lashes,  gathered 
courage  to  approach  the  stranded  visitors,  and  I  risked  my 
useful  Slavic  sentence,  with  a  smile.  '^Kako  se  zove  ovaV^ 
pointing  to  herself.  (How  do  they  call  that?  or,  What  is 
the  name  of  that  ?)  Without  hesitation  she  answered  ^^  Agus- 
to,"  and  I  was  lost  in  admiration  of  her  understanding. 

216 


BACK    INTO    DALMATIA 

Now  my  linguistic  abilities  were  reduced  to  naught.  I  knew 
no  other  phrase,  but  —  a  happy  thought  struck  me.  Point- 
ing to  a  green-domed  church  on  the  hill  above  a  lighthouse 
on  the  opposite  shore,  I  repeated  my  useful  phrase.  Again 
an  answer  —  ''Josica'' — and  as  that  was  the  word  I  ex- 
pected I  recognized  it  with  delight. 

Probably  I  should  have  gone  on  indefinitely  indicating 
different  features  of  the  landscape  had  not  a  tug  just  then 
appeared  from  the  Vallone  of  Risano  and  approached  our 
dock,  but  alas!  it  steamed  by  us.  ''Is  it  going  for  the 
barge?"  We  watch  it  until,  instead  of  proceeding  toward 
Castelnuovo,  it  turns  and  skirts  the  south  shore  of  Teodo 
Bay.  Before  very  long  it  reappears,  however,  towing  the 
expected  barge,  and  we  welcome  effusively  the  courteous 
captain  and  his  efficient  crew  This  time  they  have 
procured  a  larger  sort  of  a  tank  barge  with  a  flat  deck 
which  comes  even  with  the  dock,  so  that  our  car  goes  on 
without  the  least  difficulty.  Under  an  awning  on  the 
accompanying  tug,  seats  are  arranged  for  us  and  as  we 
steam  away  I  look  back  at  the  shady  quay  and  the  gray 
stone  house  beside  it.  Over  the  door  is  a  sign:  ''Rachella 
Marchesini,  Prodaja,  Jestvina  Rukotvorine  L  vina."  And 
from  a  half-open  upper  window,  a  sweet-faced  old  woman 
is  leaning,  gayly  waving  "Buon  Viaggio.'" 

We  part  from  our  government  aid  on  the  quay  at  Kam- 
enari  with  mutual  expressions  of  satisfaction  and  meet  with 
no  further  adventures  as  we  speed  by  fields  of  yellow  daisies 
and  gardens  of  pink  valerian,  towards  the  ''Gninen  Strand" 
at   Zelenika.     More   delicious   Hungarian   cooking  awaits 

217 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

us  there  and  after  luncheon  and  a  short  rest  we  leave  for 
Ragusa. 

The  fearless  blue-backed  swallows  rest  quietly  on  the 
wires  as  we  whiz  under  them,  the  bells  of  Santa  Savina 
sound  the  quarter-hour  far  in  the  distance.  Through  the 
entrance  to  the  Bocche  a  two-masted  schooner  is  fleeing 
from  the  rising  wrath  of  the  Adriatic.  The  round  tower 
of  Fort  Spagnuolo  appears  above  ivy  bastions  and  we  stop 
at  Castelnuovo  in  order  that  our  Leader  may  call  upon  the 
Austrian  officials  to  thank  them  for  their  courtesy  in  facili- 
tating our  Montenegrin  trip. 

'Tt  's  pretty  warm,  but  let 's  just  walk  up  to  that  little 
tower  —  won't  you?"  as  the  Gentle  Lady  hesitated,  and  we 
climbed  the  stone-paved  street  looking  down  through  narrow 
openings  to  the  blue  waters  of  the  Bocche  far  below.  Patient 
little  donkeys  toiled  up  the  steep  incline  laden  with  heavy 
bags.  To  my  surprise  they  did  not  pause  at  the  entrance 
of  a  shop,  but  calmly  walked  up  the  steps  and  in  at  the  open 
door.  Occasionally  they  needed  some  assistance  to  get 
through,  as  the  saddle-bags  were  stuffed  and  bulky.  I 
wanted  to  follow  them  to  see  whether  or  not  they  climbed 
to  the  higher  stories  as  I  am  very  sure  they  could. 

The  sun  was  dazzling.  'T  must  find  a  place  to  change 
my  kodak  spool,"  exclaimed  the  Enthusiast.  An  open 
archway  led  by  shallow  paved  steps  to  a  small  court,  where 
a  carpenter's  shop  disclosed  a  store  of  shavings.  I  peered 
within. 

"Might  I  arrange  my  camera  here?  It  is  necessary  to 
get  out  of  the  light." 

218 


AT   CA.SrEL.\"UU\0 


BACK    INTO    DALMATIA 

"But  yes,"  exclaimed  the  man,  delightedly,  and  rushed 
for  a  damp  cloth,  with  which,  in  a  trice,  he  wiped  off  one 
end  of  a  long  table  and  watched  me  intently  as  I  began  my 
accustomed  task. 

"From  Trieste?"  he  muttered. 

"No,  from  America,"  I  answered. 

"Ah,  indeed.  I  have  a  son  in  America,"  was  his 
proud  response. 

"Have  you?  And  whereabouts  in  America  might  he 
be?" 

"In  Buenos  Ayres,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  America  del  Sud  —  I  am  from  America  del  Nord." 

This  made  little  impression,  I  could  see.  America  was 
America  —  a  far  country  across  the  sea  —  why  make 
invidious  distinctions  ? 

"And  how  long  has  your  son  been  there?" 

"A  year." 

"And  does  he  like  it?' 

"Very  much." 

"It  must  be  different  from  here." 

"Madame  likes  it  here?" 

"Very  much  indeed.  The  Bocche  is  enchanting  and 
Cetinje  — !  We  left  Cetinje  this  morning  after  seven  o'clock 
[It  is  now  about  three.]  What  a  wonderful  drive  down  the 
mountain!" 

The  man  was  looking  at  me  more  intently.  I  am  sure 
he  did  not  hear  my  enthusiastic  remark.  There  was  no 
steamer  that  day,  and  to  drive  from  Cetinje  meant  eleven 
hours  without  stopping. 

219 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

"Yes,"  I  went  on,  enjoying  his  speaking  countenance, 
but  apparently  occupied  with  my  camera,  "and  we  had  to 
wait  two  hours  at  the  ferry  for  the  boat  —  otherwise  — " 

"She  would  have  been  here  two  hours  ago,  only  she  had 
to  wait  for  the  ferry,"  mechanically  repeated  the  man  to 
his  assistant,  who  had  joined  him  —  an  apprentice,  appar- 
ently.   And  they  both  fixed  me  with  a  solemn  gaze. 

"Oh,  and  we  were  an  hour  and  a  half  at  Zelenika  for 
luncheon,"  I  went  on,  casually. 

"An  hour  and  a  half,"  he  whispered,  and  edged  away  a 
little,  with  the  shock  of  it  all,  trying  to  make  up  his  mind 
what  kind  of  a  lunatic  had  strayed  into  his  establishment. 

"In  an  automobile  one  can  get  over  a  great  deal  of 
ground,  you  see."  This  explanation  so  relieved  his  mind 
that  he  unconsciously  relaxed  and  became  the  attentive 
host  again.  As  I  thanked  him  at  parting  he  was  all  smiles 
and  ''Kilss  die  Hand,'"  and  when  we  whirled  away  from 
Castelnuovo  some  time  after,  he  stood  bareheaded  by  the 
roadside  and  waved  us  a  respectful  salutation.  How  kindly 
the  people  are !    With  what  joy  they  serve  one ! 

It  was  very  hot.  Our  poor  engine  gasped  for  breath 
before  we  reached  the  top  of  the  ridge  separating  the  Suto- 
rina  from  the  Val  Canali,  but  our  friend,  the  brook,  rippling 
down  the  stony  slope,  offered  her  services  for  our  relief. 
The  radiator  tank  was  emptied  and  refilled,  an  extra  pailful 
carried  along,  and  merrily  we  sailed  above  the  silver  sea,  the 
ancient  Epidaurus,  the  cascades  and  the  mill  of  Breno, 
Lacroma's  wooded  isle  and  Orsola's  gray  crags,  until  the 
welcome  walls  of  Ragusa,  lying  below  Mount  Sergius,  grew 

220 


BACK    INTO    DALMATIA 

ever  nearer  and  nearer,  and  as  we  dismounted  from  the  motor 
at  the  hotel  door  we  reahzed  that  our  tour  to  Montenegro, 
instead  of  being  a  doubtful  future  experiment,  had  now 
become  one  of  our  most  unusual,  delightful,  and  thrilling 
experiences. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ENTERING   THE  HERZEGOVINA  —  RAGUSA   TO   GACKO 
VIA   TREBINJE 

U  AGUSA  means  to  me  purple  iris  and  wistaria  against 
old  ivory  walls;  black  rocks  where  sea-green  water 
breaks  in  a  million  sparkles ;  air  sweet  with  gorse  and  pine ; 
and  a  moving  crowd  in  brilliant  national  costumes!  Eight 
golden  days  in  all  we  linger  there,  —  wandering  up  the 
wooded  slopes  of  Lapad  and  Lacroma,  or  climbing  the 
rough  paths  of  Monte  Sergio,  where  wild  flowers  in  new  and 
tantalizing  variety  spring  from  between  the  rocks,  saunter- 
ing through  the  sunlit  streets  of  this  southern  city  where 
Slav  and  Latin  meet.  I  dare  not  think  that  this  may  be 
our  last  visit  to  the  fair  Dalmatian  city,  or  never  could  I 
leave  it  with  so  light  a  heart  on  this  gay  and  cloudless  morn- 
ing when  we  set  out  for  the  Herzegovina. 

Around  the  old  Minceta  Tower  and  the  castle  at  the  port ; 
passing  many  women  with  their  white-covered  baskets  on 
their  heads;  through  sloping  acres  of  wild  iris  and  aloe,  pop- 
pies and  the  yellow  gorse ;  above  the  hazy  sea  we  continue 
our  journeyings.  We  glance  at  San  Giacomo  and  take  a  last 
look  at  Ragusa  as  we  round  a  promontory;  then  after  follow- 
ing the  lovely  curves  of  the  Val  d  'Orsola,  near  a  small  settle- 
ment known  as  Dubac,  we  turn  to  the  left  on  our  way  to 
Trebinje.  Below  us,  in  our  curving  ascent,  the  Val  di  Breno 
lies,  perhaps  the  prettiest  valley  in  Dalmatia.    And  this  must 


RAGUSA    TO    GACKO 

surely  be  the  loveliest  time  of  the  year,  with  all  the  varying 
shades  of  green  from  cypresses  to  the  new  grain.  A  shel- 
tered vale,  indeed,  protected  from  the  northern  winds  where 
the  sun  pours  down  with  fervid  heat. 

We  are  glad  to  reach  the  mountain  top  and  the  little 
group  of  houses  on  the  Herzegovinian  frontier,  known  as 
Ivanica.  Here  a  breeze  is  blowing  and  a  woman,  wearing 
the  tiny  red  cap  with  dilapidated  white  veil  over  it,  is 
grinding  coffee  in  a  long  brass  cylinder,  which  she  twirls 
as  she  stares  at  us.  Only  Slavic  characters  are  to  be 
seen  on  all  signs.  The  road  is  fine;  and  as  we  put  on 
our  coats  we  turn  back  for  a  last  look  at  the  Adriatic, 
which  during  so  many  weeks  has  been  our  constant  com- 
panion. The  country  does  not  differ  materially  from  that 
of  upper  Dalmatia,  —  rocks  and  junipers,  fields  of  grain, 
some  young  trees,  but  no  yellow  gorse.  As  we  enter  the 
defile  of  Drijen,  two  old  koulas,  or  Turkish  watch  towers, 
appear  on  the  hilltops,  and  my  Cetinje  songster,  with  others 
of  his  kind,  flits  by  us.  Suddenly  I  look  up  and  the  rocky 
aspect  has  disappeared,  oaks  and  elms  abound  with  many 
yellow- flowering  bushes,  whose  locust-like  racemes  stand 
upright.  Is  it  a  kind  of  laurustinus  ?  A  crested  lark  alights 
on  the  ground,  nearby.  Gradually  the  rocks  enclose 
us  again;  hills  rise  on  either  side  and  mountain  peaks 
beyond  crowned  by  the  snows  of  Montenegro.  A 
beautiful  green  stream  is  seen  below  us,  which  we  soon 
cross. 

''What  did  you  say  its  name  was?"  I  ask. 

"Wait  —  I  will  write  it,"  he  calls  back,  after  vainly 

333 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

trying  to  make  me  understand ;  and  soon  he  hands  me  a  slip 
of  paper.     "  The  Trebisnjica  or  Tribinjcica." 

"No  wonder  I  did  not  catch  it,"  I  remark,  somewhat 
wearily.     ''I  am  going  to  call  it  the  Trebinje  River." 

A  curious  round  fort  loop-holed  for  musket-fire  stands 
at  each  end  of  the  bridge  and  the  river  twists  in  serpentine 
curves  through  the  richly  cultivated  valley.  Here  vineyards 
as  well  as  rice  and  tobacco  flourish,  but  the  surrounding 
mountains  are  bleak  and  bare.  Even  in  the  dog-days,  when 
the  heat  is  intense,  the  snow  lingers  in  the  crevices  of  a 
neighboring  crater,  so  near  that  the  natives  bring  it  down, 
at  night,  to  cool  their  favorite  drinks. 

Trebinje  is  divided  into  two  parts.  The  old  town  is 
quaint  and  curious,  and  there  is  a  charming  bit  of  moat, 
where  moss-grown  walls  are  reflected  in  still  waters.  The 
new  town  outside  is  modern  and  clean.  But  the  children  — 
particularly  the  little  girls!  It  was  my  first  glimpse  of  the 
female  Turkish  costume  and  all  I  could  think  of  was  a  swarm 
of  butterflies  as,  turning  a  corner,  a  group  of  some  twenty 
wee  maidens  caught  sight  of  my  black  box  and  fled  in  all 
directions  —  getting  behind  every  available  object  and  peer- 
ing from  around  dark  corners.  They  were  far  too  nimble 
for  me  in  my  astonishment  at  their  objection  to  the  camera. 
Such  brilliancy  of  color!  The  short  waists  and  baggy 
trousers,  the  kerchiefs  or  round  caps,  were  too  quaint  for 
words!  How  I  longed  to  argue  with  them,  to  persuade  them 
to  pose  just  once,  but  that  was  hopeless!  I  must  remember 
that  the  Herzegovina  and  Bosnia  were  Turkish  territory 
until  1878    and    although  now  under  the  administration 

224 


THE    VOUXOF.R    GENERA  IK  )X    ARE    ADOPTINC    ElRi  tPEAX   CLOTHES 

(trebinje) 


RAGUSA    TO    GACKO 

of  Austria,  still  the  Moslem  traditions  are  carefully 
respected.* 

To  any  one  who  has  been  at  Cairo  or  Constantinople, 
the  bazaar  at  Trebinje  is  but  a  poor  affair  and  the  mosques 
indifferent;  although  minarets,  when  used  for  the  musical 
call  to  prayer,  always  produce  a  pleasing  impression.  The 
hotel  is  fairly  comfortable  and  the  restaurant  so  popular 
that  when  the  numerous  officers  are  at  table  there  is  little 
room  for  mere  casual  guests. 

"Where  can  we  leave  the  motor?"  asks  the  Leader. 
He  has  long  ago  outgrown  the  habit  of  asking  for  a  garage. 

''Oh,  in  that  little  garden.  There  is  a  fence  about  it 
and  I  will  have  a  man  to  watch  it  while  the  chauffeur 
eats  his  lunch." 

It  is  quite  evident  that  we  are  not  in  Dalmatia,  where  the 
car  has  stood  at  the  door,  day  and  night,  unmolested.  Our 
anxiety  leads  us  to  visit  it  as  it  stands  in  state  under  the 
shady  trees,  and  we  find  a  red-fezzed  native  solemnly  walk- 
ing around  it,  with  a  stout  stick,  which  he  brandishes  over 
the  heads  of  the  small  boys  when  their  curiosity  leads  them 
too  near.  His  task  is  no  sinecure,  either,  as  the  youngsters 
are  numerous  and  agile. 

As  we  leave  Trebinje,  a  company  of  soldiers  marching 
in  the  road  parts  and  we  have  the  novel  sensation  of  riding 
between  ranks  of  armed  men!  There  are  soldiers  every- 
where and  forts  on  all  the  heights.  The  macadamized  road 
from  Trebinje  to  Gacko,  instead  of  following  closely  the 

♦This  was  in  May,  1908.  In  the  following  October  these  two  provinces  were 
formally  annexed  and  became  an  integral  part  of  the  Austro-Hungarian  Empire. 

225 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

waterway  in  the  valleys,  climbs  among  the  foot-hills  keeping 
near  the  forts  along  the  frontier  and  is  maintained  in  fine 
condition.  When  one  sees  the  Turkish  mule  tracks,  formerly 
the  only  means  of  communication  in  the  mountains,  one  ap- 
preciates what  Austria  has  done  in  her  thirty  years'  control 
of  Bosnia  and  the  Herzegovina  in  making  these  excellent 
roads  throughout  the  country.  The  wind  is  in  the  south 
and  the  day  is  very  warm  as  we  climb  slowly  along  the 
Karst,  toward  our  destination  for  the  night,  Gacko.  We 
have  not  been  able  to  find  any  one  who  has  been  in  Gacko, 
nor  does  the  guide-book  give  us  much  encouragement ;  but 
the  leader  pins  his  faith  to  a  fellow  motorist,  who  has  as- 
sured him  that  there  is  a  government  inn  there,  entirely 
possible. 

Just  beyond  a  guard-house  on  a  hilltop,  a  woman,  spin- 
ning, stands  spellbound  as  we  pass,  erect  as  a  young  Greek 
goddess,  the  wind  blowing  her  black  lamb's-wool  coat  back 
from  her  embroidered  apron.  As  long  as  we  can  see  her, 
she  stands  motionless. 

"Almost  the  Victory  of  Samothrace,  isn't  she?"  com- 
ments my  companion. 

A  group  of  shepherdesses  among  the  rocks  seem  to  us 
very  much  dressed  up,  tending  their  flock  of  goats  or  sheep 
or  cattle.  The  dark  blue  skirt,  reaching  just  below  the  knee, 
is  trimmed  with  bands  of  red,  the  sleeveless  long  white  coat 
goes  over  a  blue  long-sleeved  waist  and  the  small  red  cap 
has  a  white  kerchief  pinned  over  it,  while  a  red-tasselled  flat 
pouch  is  borne  on  the  arm.  An  older  woman  is  draped  in  a 
brown  struka.    An  Othello  stalks  by  in  gorgeous  raiment; 

226 


RAGUSA    TO    GACKO 

his  red  velvet  jacket  embroidered  with  gold,  and  the  flower 
in  his  turban,  making  an  effective  picture. 

After  a  particularly  trying  "up"  in  the  midst  of  our  undu- 
lating progress,  we  stop  to  beg  for  water  from  a  barrel  by 
the  wayside.  For  water  is  a  valuable  commodity  in  this 
barren  desert  and  every  drop  is  highly  treasured. 

"Is  n't  there  any  level  country  at  all  ?"  asks  the  chauffeur, 
in  the  intervals  of  changing  speed  and  applying  the  brakes. 

"No,  it  is  all  mountains,"  quietly  assures  the  Leader; 
and  we  continue  going  down  and  up  again,  meeting  more 
gorgeously  attired  gentlemen  ambling  along  on  donkeys. 
Huge  horses,  splendid  in  brass  and  tasselled  harness  and 
drawing  loads  of  supplies  to  the  military  encampments,  pass 
us.  We  descend  to  cross  a  three-arched  stone  bridge  over 
the  Trebinjcica  River  and  rise  to  new  heights  at  Mosko. 
From  the  low  doorways  of  the  tiny  settlement  pour  the 
picturesque  inhabitants,  men,  women,  and  children. 

"The  source  of  the  Trebinjcica  is  beneath  that  moun- 
tain wall,"  points  the  Leader;  as  we  pass  Neu-Bilek  and 
are  confronted  anew  with  the  striking  imperial  initials, 
"F.  J.  L,"  some  ten  feet  long,  outlined  in  white  stones  upon 
the  mountain  slope.  The  lilacs  and  fruit-trees  are  in  bloom 
here  in  this  oasis  watered  by  the  river. 

Taking  advantage  of  a  particularly  smooth  bit,  we  are 
flying  along  the  highway  when  —  bang!  A  tire  has  burst. 
Of  course,  no  one  of  us  rejoices  when  we  lose  a  tire,  but  if 
it  must  occur,  no  place  could  be  more  propitious  than  in 
this  town  of  Bilek,  some  eighteen  miles  from  Trebinje  and 
the  only  place  of  any  size  until  we  reach  the  plain  of  Gacko. 

227 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

A  group  of  natives  gather  in  silent  awe  and  curiosity  to 
watch  the  chauffeur  repair  the  damage.  They  form  a 
brilHant  picture  in  their  gay  costumes,  against  the  gray  stone 
walls.  Only  one  adventurous  little  girl  steals,  silently, 
close  to  the  huge  chauffeur;  while  from  a  neighboring  bal- 
cony a  woman  leans  for  information  and  a  gay  retort.  A 
Turkish  house,  with  overhanging  eaves,  stands  at  the  corner 
where  our  highway  leads  and  higher  up,  above  some  tur- 
baned  graves,  a  mosque  with  tall  white  minaret  appears. 
Near  us,  before  a  high  stone  wall,  a  woman  turns  a  squeaky 
wheel,  filling  her  shiny  cans  with  water  from  the  village 
well,  and  every  animal  that  passes  stops  to  get  a  cooling 
draught  before  he  wanders  on  again. 

While  the  Leader  goes  to  the  telegraph  office  to  vdre 
Trieste  for  another  tire  to  meet  us  farther  on,  we  two  seek 
further  diversion. 

**0h, do  come  here!"  calls  my  companion,  in  an  excited 
whisper,  as  I  turn  my  film  for  a  fresh  exposure,  and  follow- 
ing her  fixed  gaze,  I  see  striding  up  the  hill  toward  us  a 
wonderfully  picturesque  couple.  He,  of  course,  marches 
ahead,  brave  in  his  holiday  attire,  leading  his  trusty  moun- 
tain horse  loaded  with  well-filled  saddle-bags.  But  the  coy 
young  mountain  maid, —  how  truly  splendid  her  appearance! 

"Oh!  Do  you  suppose  it's  a  bride?"  asks  Madame 
Content ;  but  I  am  too  busy  trying  to  get  a  picture  to  answer, 
for  the  countenance  of  the  man  is  stern  and  forbidding.  He 
is  no  Turk,  but  he  may  have  prejudices  against  the  camera. 
She  may  be  from  Albania,  possibly,  for  she  wears  over  her 
wool  skirt  and  embroidered  apron  a  long  red  velvet  sleeve- 

228 


RAGUSA    TO    GACKO 

less  coat  trimmed  heavily  with  gold;  her  open  jacket  has 
great  silver  knobs,  as  big  as  sleigh-bells,  down  both  sides 
of  the  front  and  lace  ruffles  at  the  wrist ;  a  rich  gold  chain  is 
around  her  neck  and  from  her  cap  hang  coins  and  pendant 
jewels;  her  belt  buckles  are  enormous  and  of  beautiful 
workmanship;  on  her  fingers  are  silver  rings  and  over  a 
white  head-kcrchief,  is  draped  a  scariet  bashilik  with  tassel- 
led  fringe.  She  walks  with  the  easy  pace  of  the  mountain- 
eer and  her  pony  follows  with  slackened  rein.  They,  too, 
stop  at  the  well  for  refreshment  and  I  long  for  an  inter 
preter.  The  young  woman  does  not  seem  averse  to  our 
acquaintance,  if  friendly  smiles  mean  anything;  but  the 
dark-skinned  man,  be  he  husband  or  father,  hurries  her 
away,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  they  disappear  down 
the  long  road. 

The  chauffeur  is  now  putting  away  the  air  pump,  which 
is  our  signal  for  adjustment  of  veils  and  of  dust  coats.  We 
fairly  whiz  across  a  fertile,  blossoming  valley,  and  as  we 
climb  the  other  side  get  a  charming  view  of  Bilek,  under 
the  terraced  hillside  crowned  by  her  fort.  A  fawn-colored 
''hooded  crow,"  with  black  head  and  wings,  flies  fearlessly 
by,  and  from  a  passing  carriage  two  Turkish  women  peer 
at  us  behind  their  veils. 

There  are  no  kilometer  posts  but  sometimes  numbers 
painted  on  the  rocks,  whether  distances  or  military  marks 
we  fail  to  discover.  The  road  is  excellent  and  we  go  twist- 
ing up  and  down  the  low  hills.  At  our  right  a  black  cloud 
is  forming,  and  from  it  sharp  lightning  at  intervals  denotes 
a  storm. 

229 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

"Yes,  that  is  our  direction,"  placidly  answers  the  Leader, 
to  our  anxious  inquiries.     "Will  you  have  the  top  up?" 

"Oh,  not  yet,"  we  answer  in  our  usual  chorus.  "This 
fresh  air  is  so  delightful." 

We  pass  many  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats  and  some  small 
herds  of  cattle  guarded  by  the  brightly  gowned  Herzegovin- 
ian  peasants. 

"Thirty  kilometers  more  to  Gacko,"  calls  back  the 
Leader,  and  a  cuckoo  utters  his  plaintive  note. 

"Isn't  that  a  sign  of  rain?"  asks  Madame  Content. 

"I  'm  afraid  it  is  — or  snow,"  responds  the  Leader,  for 
very  near  us  the  snow  appears  and  white  fields  surround  us. 
This  is  the  top  of  the  pass,  he  informs  us,  —  Troglav  (4340 
feet),  and  we  put  up  the  hood  just  in  time  to  escape  big  drops 
of  rain.  Luckily,  only  the  edge  of  the  heavy  shower  reaches 
us  so  that  we  enjoy  the  splendid  panorama  of  the  Monte- 
negrin Alps  rising  on  our  right,  white  with  the  freshly  fallen 
snow.  Into  a  defile  of  curious  ridged  rock  we  descend,  — 
where  green  hellebore  and  yellow  orchids  abound,  —  then 
through  a  cultivated  valley,  watered  by  a  mountain  torrent, 
where  the  hawthorn  hedges  are  white  with  blossoms. 

We  discern  the  fort  of  Cernica  on  our  left  and  follow 
the  rippling  brook  up  into  the  recesses  of  the  mountains  again. 
It  rains  when  we  have  gained  the  crest,  but  not  enough  to 
prevent  our  seeing  the  flat  Gacko  plain,  or  polje,  across  which 
we  are  soon  bowling;  a  rockless  valley,  broad  and  undivided 
by  walls  or  hedges.  Waterways  intersect,  with  locks  for 
controlling  the  flow,  and  on  this  fertile  floor  the  grain  is 
three  inches  high  in  some  places,  in  others  men  are  harvest- 

230 


RAGUSA    TO    GACKO 

ing,  and  in  still  others  scattering  the  seed.  The  vesper  spar- 
rows follow  in  great  flocks  and  a  brilliant  yellow  bird,  as 
large  as  a  robin,  but  with  dark  wings,  eludes  my  persistent 
glass.  Is  it  the  golden  oriole?  Over  the  Musica  River, 
and  passing  the  branch  road  to  Avtovac,  we  reach  Gacko 
and  its  government  inn. 


231 


CHAPTER  XXII 

GACKO  TO  MOSTAR  — SOURCE  OF  THE  BUNA 

A  COLD  rain  is  falling,  the    snow  on  the  neighboring 

mountains  comes  down  very  near  us.      We  are  glad 

of  our  heaviest  wraps  and  hesitate  to  remove  them  even  in 

the  cheerless  shelter  of  the  inn,  for  Gacko  is  three  thousand, 

two  hundred  feet  above  the  sea. 

Whoever  planned  this  primitive  hostelry  had  no  nose,  I 
am  sure.  As  soon  as  we  enter  the  large  front  room,  with  a 
table  on  one  side  evidently  used  for  eating,  we  know  that 
onions  have  been  cooking  for  some  time ;  in  the  square  stair- 
case well  the  scent  becomes  overpowering,  and  no  wonder, 
—  for  the  kitchen  opens  directly  beneath!  If  it  has  another 
outlet,  this  is  the  one  most  used,  and  into  each  chamber 
penetrates  the  odor  with  a  strength  and  a  persistence  worthy 
of  a  better  cause.  The  inn  seems  to  float  in  a  mild,  hazy 
atmosphere  of  garlic!  Of  course,  the  occupants  do  not  per- 
ceive it,  accustomed  as  they  are  to  its  continuance,  but  fresh 
from  the  delicious  ozone  of  the  heights,  we  nearly  suffocate. 
The  Leader  dares  not  sympathize  with  us,  for  there  is  no 
other  place  to  go.  We  stumble  up  the  stairway  in  our  dark 
veils;  and  at  the  top,  I  being  first,  stop  in  dismay;  for, 
stretched  entirely  across  the  landing,  lies  a  huge  hound. 
"She  won't  trouble  you!"  calls  out  a  voice  from  below;  and 
after  lazy  hesitation,  Madame,  the  dog,  consents  to  move 
along  a  little  to  let  us  pass. 

232 


GACKO    TO    MOSTAR 

The  rooms  marked  ''  Fremden  Zimmer^^  over  each  door 
are  clean,  but  certainly  not  luxurious,  as  the  German  guide- 
book plainly  said.  The  windows  are  small  and  few,  the 
glass  of  the  poorest,  and  the  woodwork  of  the  cheapest. 
The  floor  boards  are  guiltless  of  paint  or  stain,  about  ten 
inches  wide,  not  too  closely  set;  there  is  a  tiny,  worn  rug 
by  each  bed,  and  those  beds  are  of  iron  —  to  my  relief.  On 
each  is  laid  a  red  cotton  quilt,  neither  long  enough  nor  wide 
enough  to  tuck  in,  and  the  sheets  match  the  quilt  in  size, 
while  the  pillows  are  stuffed  with  cotton ;  but  there  are  two 
mattresses  and  the  woven  wire  has  not  lost  its  spring.  Each 
room  boasts  a  stove,  but  no  fire. 

Wondering  what  we  will  get  for  dinner  besides  onions, 
I  think  hopefully  of  the  cracker  box  and  the  prune  bottle 
safely  tucked  away  in  the  automobile.  In  due  time  we  are 
conducted  to  a  not  over-clean  table  in  the  inner  room,  evi- 
dently the  banquet-hall  (  ?) ;  and  shortly  a  maid  in  a  sailor 
blouse  of  fancy  red  and  white  stripe,  cut  very  low  in  the  neck, 
a  dark  cloth  skirt  and  an  apology  for  an  apron,  bursts  into 
the  room. 

"Kiiss  die  Hand,  gleich,  bitle  schon,''  she  explodes,  and 
departs  again. 

Evidently  custom  is  brisk.  We  wait  patiently.  After 
a  long  time,  she  reappears  with  two  plates  of  Hamburg  steak 
and  potatoes,  and  two  of  lettuce. 

"Bitte  schon''  she  apologizes,  as  she  disappears  through 
the  open  door.  Our  stock  of  exclamations  seem  inadequate 
to  this  demand  upon  them,  and  we  remain  gravely  silent, 
contemplating  the  feast  before  us. 

233 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

"I  choose  the  lettuce,  please,"  I  say,  after  a  slight  pause, 
for  each  one  of  us  is  determined  not  to  be  the  first  to  find 
fault.  In  travelling  through  strange  countries  this  is  an 
excellent  rule  to  follow:  we  had  decided  upon  that  in  the 
beginning,  but  not  having  had  any  occasion  for  its  use,  we 
had  almost  forgotten  our  resolve. 

"Perhaps  we  could  have  some  beer,"  cheerfully  remarks 
the  Leader,  attacking  with  a  good  semblance  of  zest  his 
overflowing  plate.     The  beer  is  brought  and  is  excellent. 

"You  should  learn  to  eat  onions,"  asserts  Madame 
Content,  "this  steak  isn't  so  bad." 

At  the  other  side  of  the  hall  is  the  "Casino,"  at  least 
that  is  what  the  sign  over  the  door  says.  The  Leader  goes 
in  to  see  it,  and  reports  two  men  playing  billiards,  three 
women  and  two  babies  listening  to  a  mechanical  musical 
instrument. 

"Probably  if  you  lived  in  Gacko,  that  would  be  sufficient 
to  give  you  an  evening's  amusement,  too,"  replies  Madame 
Content,  at  the  report  of  her  liege  lord. 

As  we  go  upstairs  a  voice  from  the  dark  depths  of  the 
kitchen  shouts:  "Kuss  die  Hand!  Guten  NacW  And 
we  at  least  can  respond  to  that  "Guten  NacW 

When  I  open  my  blinds  in  the  morning  it  is  rarely  that 
a  new  picture  fails  to  greet  me,  and  Gacko  is  no  exception. 

The  snowy  mountains  and  blue  sky  and  green  valley  are 
bound  together  by  the  glorious  arc  of  a  rainbow.  The  buds 
are  just  beginning  to  swell  on  the  forest  trees  before  my  win- 
dow, but  in  the  garden  opposite  the  currants  are  in  blossom. 

Some  one  is  coming  across  the  plain,  —  is  it  man  or 

234 


GACKO    TO    MOSTAR 

woman  muffled  against  the  morning's  chill?  Evidently  a 
woman,  —  for  as  she  approaches  town  she  draws  her  white 
head-covering  closer  to  shield  her  face  while  the  long  black 
cloak  reveals  bright  blue  Turkish  trousers.  As  she  passes 
I  see  an  oblong  piece  of  black  cloth  trimmed  with  dull 
embroidery  hanging  down  her  back.  Has  she  come  in  to 
see  the  parade  of  the  Austrian  Automobile  Club,  which, 
sixteen  strong,  is  hurrying  over  the  mountains  from  Mostar 
to-day?  They  are  to  stop  here  for  luncheon  before  going 
on  to  Ragusa.  Will  it  be  Hamburg  steak  and  onions, 
I  wonder? 

Great  is  the  excitement  of  the  populace  waiting  their 
arrival.  The  town  proper  of  Gacko  lies  perhaps  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  up  the  hill  behind  the  hotel,  and  at  least  one-half 
of  the  inhabitants  have  come  down  even  at  this  early  hour 
to  secure  good  vantage  points  on  the  post  road.  The 
little  girls  are  a  repetition  of  those  at  Trebinje,  only  more 
ragged  and  dirty,  and  less  shy.  Leather  straps  hold  the 
wooden  sandals  on  their  bare  feet;  full  cotton  trousers, 
gathered  at  the  ankles;  a  short  waist,  always  of  another 
material,  but  equally  bright ;  a  kerchief  over  the  head ;  — 
the  costume  might  be  suitable  for  the  Bosphorus  or  the 
Levant,  but  must  be  an  inadequate  protection  in  this 
frosty  mountain  air. 

Our  morning  meal,  looked  forward  to  with  doubt  and 
apprehension,  turns  out  even  worse  than  we  have  antici- 
pated. The  coffee  —  save  the  mark  —  served  in  tall  glasses 
is  lukewarm;  the  bread,  heavy  and  sour;  the  butter,  impos- 
sible!   The   eggs   are   merely   warmed   through,   and   the 

235 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

spoons  far  too  large  to  enter  the  shells.  I  look  at  the  tooth- 
picks hesitatingly;  at  another  village  we  have  seen  them 
used  for  such  purposes  —  can  I  do  it  ?  There  is  no  other 
way  but  to  follow  the  custom  of  the  country;  salted  and 
stirred  with  this  implement,  the  egg  is  made  palatable  and 
drunk! 

It  is  amusing  to  hear  the  light  tone  adopted  by  the  party 
when  v/e  come  together  after  the  morning  meal.  No  ref- 
erence is  made  to  personal  experiences,  but  a  unanimous 
verdict  is  rendered  for  an  early  start. 

"I  would  like,  if  possible,  to  get  by  the  narrowest  part  of 
the  road  before  meeting  the  Austrian  cars,"  explains  the 
Leader;  and  we  accept  this  excuse  without  question,  though 
smiles  lurk  in  our  Yankee  sleeves.  "We  will  have  to  be 
careful  and  run  slowly,  as  they  will  not  be  expecting  to 
meet  a  motor,  and  the  turns  are  sharp." 

Just  then  a  man  on  a  white  horse  gallops  around  the 
corner  shouting  violently,  and  scarcely  has  he  drawn  up  by 
the  roadside,  when  a  gasoHne  runabout  appears  in  the  dis- 
tance and  dashes  into  the  village.  It  seems  that  men  are 
stationed  on  the  heights  for  miles  along  the  way  who  either 
halloo  or  wave  a  blue  flag,  thus  signalling  the  coming  of  an 
automobile,  and  the  news  so  carried  is  repeated  by  the  gal- 
lant horseman  to  the  town.  We  do  not  wait  to  exchange 
courtesies,  but  take  advantage  of  the  distracted  attention  of 
the  populace  to  get  away.  Many  women  are  squatting  on 
boulders  without  the  town,  their  faces  covered  to  the  eyes. 
Oxen  and  donkeys  are  relegated  to  the  fields.  We  have  a 
clear  road.    The  men  salute  us  politely  as  we  wind  through 

236 


GACKO    TO    MOSTAR 

a  narrow  pass,  and  one  drops  his  blue  flag  in  amazement  at 
seeing  us  approach  from  the  wrong  direction. 

Passing  a  wretched  Mohammedan  cemetery  —  not  even 
enclosed  and  with  the  headstones  at  all  angles,  —  we  cross 
the  Zalomska  and  from  an  adjoining  hilltop  a  whole  com- 
pany of  soldiers  rush  down  to  look  at  us.  It  is  after  we  have 
gone  through  the  narrowest  part  of  the  defile,  fully  half  an 
hour  after  leaving  Gacko,  and  just  beyond  Fojnica  that  we 
meet  the  second  car  of  the  Austrian  Automobile  Club,  a 
large  open  motor  from  whose  depths  a  begoggled  enthusiast 
waves  his  hat  in  exuberance  of  friendly  greeting.  Back  and 
forth  across  the  Zalomska  the  excellent  road  zig-zags  in 
and  out  between  high  limestone  hills,  occasionally  relieved 
by  groves  of  pollarded  oaks  on  curious  rock  strata.  The 
green  tufts  of  the  hellebore  denote  the  sterile  character  of 
the  region,  yet  from  the  cliffs  four  streams  pour  their  waters 
into  the  Zalomska's  flood.  Here  we  meet  four  more  cars  in 
quick  succession. 

*Tt  is  a  comfort  to  see  the  kilometer  posts  again,"  remarks 
the  Gentle  Lady;  "it  seems  so  much  more  like  the  right 
road."  A  huge  snow  mountain  appears  just  before  we 
emerge  from  the  gorge  into  a  plain,  from  which  the  towers 
of  Nevesinje  rise  on  the  hillside. 

"That  snow  mountain  is  Velez,"  says  the  Leader.  "How 
many  have  passed  now?"  as  another  automobile  roHs  by  us. 

"That  is  the  seventh,"  —  and  in  the  town  of  Nevesinje 
we  encounter  the  eighth. 

"We  have  only  five  hundred  feet  altogether  to  ascend 
to-day,"  the  Leader  said,  when  we  left  Gacko,  but  no  sign 

237 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

of  any  climbing  have  I  perceived  until  we  reach  Nevesinje 
and  begin  the  long  loop  leading  over  the  Grabok  Saddle. 
From  the  top  (3640  feet)  we  get  a  magnificent  view  over 
the  plain,  the  snow-topped  mountains  and  the  town  of  Neves- 
inje with  its  steep  streets,  its  conspicuous  barracks,  its  roofs 
of  tile  or  shining  tin,  its  minaret,  and  white  spire  holding 
aloft  the  Holy  Cross.  Here  we  pass  six  cars  in  a  line,  one  of 
them  of  American  make.  The  "  Saddle "  is  charming, 
winding  through  a  world  of  birches  under  mossy  rocks  and 
coasting  down  a  shady  glen,  but  no  water  drips  from  the 
gray  boulders  into  the  gravelly  bed. 

Many  birds  hover  over  our  heads  and  sing  from  the  tree- 
tops  as  we  climb  again  and  from  the  summit  of  another 
height  discover  the  Narenta  valley  lying  half  in  shadow 
thirty-five  hundred  feet  below  us !  Soon  after  a  shimmering 
lake  sparkles  in  the  far  distance;  and  at  the  edge  of  a 
widening  view  the  city  of  Mostar  appears.  The  flat-topped 
hills  of  Hum  surround  us  and  at  the  right  towers  the  snowy 
Podvelez. 

The  last  car,  the  seventeenth,  we  meet  before  we  come 
to  a  point  in  the  road  where  the  view  into  the  valley  is 
stupendous!  In  loops  and  twists  the  road  coils  down  the 
mountain  side ;  the  castle  of  Stjepangrad  on  its  lofty  perch, 
six  hundred  feet  above  the  plain,  is  yet  far  below;  but 
gradually  the  conformation  of  the  lower  hills  assumes  its 
proper  proportions  and  that  same  ruined  castle  on  the 
"  torn  bare  peak  "  now  rises  above  us.  Vines  are  already 
in  leaf  and  poppies  in  blossom,  and  the  air  is  warm  and 
fragrant  in  this  fertile  Narenta  valley.     ''That  is  a  fifteenth 

238 


V  t- 


m 


U    .        ■  *m 


sorRcr:  of  tiik  urxA 


THE    liRlDGK    A  r    MOSTAR 


GACKO    TO    MOSTAR 

century  castle,"  remarks  the  Leader,  turning  around  in  his 
seat,  "and  belonged  to  that  same  Duke  Stjepan,  who  lived 
at  Castelnuovo,  you  remember.  His  last  exploit  was  to  run 
away  with  his  son's  wife,  but  he  was  caught  and  kept  in 
prison  here  until  he  died." 

We  stop  outside  the  village  of  Blagaj,  —  pronounced 
Blackeye  with  the  K  like  a  hard  G,  —  to  visit  the  source  of 
the  Buna.  Our  car  is  immediately  surrounded,  but  where 
the  people  come  from  is  a  mystery,  as  only  a  few  low  houses 
are  in  sight.  The  way  is  not  difficult  to  find,  but  a  lad  in 
picturesque  rags  takes  possession  of  us,  —  and  in  the  noon- 
day heat, —  up  the  little  path  bordered  by  hedges  of  pome- 
granate, above  a  rushing  river,  past  a  mill  and  through  the 
ruins  of  a  painted  mosque,  —  we  follow  our  small  guide  to 
a  huge  precipice  overhanging  the  chapel  of  a  Turkish  saint. 
No  water  is  to  be  seen!  At  a  rough,  locked  gate  in  the  high 
wall  the  boy  pounds  and  waits  and  pounds  again.  Either 
the  custode  is  at  his  prayers  or  very  deaf,  or  away  from  home. 
With  an  encouraging  look  the  boy  darts  away,  motioning 
us  to  stay  where  we  are;  we  wait,  nothing  loath,  in  that  cool 
shady  spot  after  our  hot  walk. 

"Is  it  possible  that  only  this  morning  I  wished  for  my 
fur  coat  ?"  asks  the  Gentle  Lady,  with  incredulous  emphasis. 

"I  don't  believe  you  will  want  it  again  during  our  tour 
this  year,"  comforts  her  liege  lord. 

And  just  then  down  the  path  our  pilot  appears  beckon- 
ing vigorously  for  us  to  join  him  and  pointing  into  a  dilapi- 
dated mill.  Over  the  rickety  floor  the  Leader  leads  the 
way  between  the  belts  of  rolling  wooden  wheels,  up  a  ladder 

239 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

to  a  window  three  feet  high,  and  scrambles  through,  turning 
to  help  us  follow  him.  At  the  foot  of  the  ladder  the  Gentle 
Lady  balks,  but  the  Enthusiast  gathering  all  her  courage 
struggles  through  and  comes  out  on  a  terraced  garden  facing 
a  sheer  white  cliff.  Pigeons  wheel  in  countless  numbers 
and  swallows'  nests  by  hundreds  cling  to  the  crag.  From 
underneath  the  limestone  wall,  pours  forth  a  seething  flood, 
spreading  into  a  charming  clear  blue  pool  before  leaping 
over  the  shelving  rocks  in  a  succession  of  foaming  rapids. 
It  is  the  source  of  the  Buna.  This  river  is  said  to  be  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  Zalomska,  which  disappears  the  other  side 
of  the  "Grabok  Saddle"  some  twelve  miles  away. 

The  change  into  the  blackness  of  the  mill  again  is  so 
complete  that  at  first  I  can  see  nothing;  but  the  turbaned 
miller  at  our  look  of  interest  lifts  a  rude  wooden  stake  in  the 
floor  and  the  whirling  millstones  stop ;  —  he  dips  the  flat 
paddle  in  the  rough  hopper  and  shows  us  the  corn,  then  goes 
to  the  open  bin  where  the  meal  lies  yellow  and  fine.  In 
the  next  hopper  is  whole  wheat,  and  below,  the  flour  ground 
finer  than  the  corn-meal.  How  picturesque  it  all  is,  —  the 
rushing  water  seen  between  the  wide  cracks  in  the  floor, 
the  three  whirling  millstones,  the  clumsy  machinery,  the 
age-darkened  roof  outlined  with  powdery  streaks,  and  the 
bent-over  old  man  quietly  awaiting  our  departure. 

Our  car  is  still  the  centre  of  an  admiring  throng  when  we 
return.  How  incongruous  it  appears  beside  the  crooked 
stones  of  a  Mohammedan  cemetery,  a  mass  of  yellow  wild 
flowers!  One  Herzegovinian  peasant  has  a  curious  decora- 
tion on  the  side  of  his  jacket,  consisting  of  four  silver  hearts, 

240 


GACKO    TO    MOSTAR 

each  two  inches  across,  connected  by  chains  and  a  fringe. 
Now,  one  silver  heart  might  well  be  understood,  and  even 
two  silver  hearts  could  be  explained  — but  four!  Is  he  the 
village  Adonis?  Never  have  I  regretted  more  keenly  my 
inability  to  speak,  their  tongue. 

Across  the  smiling  valley  on  a  fine  level  road,  through 
avenues  of  young  mulberries;  past  fields  where  Turkish 
women,  tending  sheep  and  goats,  at  our  approach  fling  their 
skirts  over  their  heads  and  hold  them  tightly;  past  big 
barracks  flanked  by  masses  of  blue  iris;  under  the  many 
hillside  forts  we  speed  merrily  from  Blagaj  into  Mostar. 


241 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
MOSTAR 

A  T  Mostar  we  are  surprised  to  find  a  comfortable  modern 
hotel  on  the  banks  of  the  Narenta  River  whose  eastern 
windows  face  a  shady  park  and  all  our  meals  are  served  on 
the  open  terrace.  "  I  think  I  shall  stay  here  at  least  a  week," 
announces  the  Gentle  Lady,  after  luncheon,  as,  sitting  on  her 
tiny  balcony  above  the  fair  green  garden,  she  watches  the 
passers-by. 

Eight  little  girls  are  playing  ''ring-round-a-rosy"  under 
the  paulownia  trees.  They  sing  with  the  same  perfect 
rhythm,  but  utter  disregard  of  tune,  so  characteristic  of  chil- 
dren the  world  over.  Have  the  Slavonic  syllables  really 
a  familiar  sound?  Or  is  it  only  that  the  ceremony,  the 
circling  around,  the  stopping  to  choose,  the  clapping  of 
hands,  bring  back  so  vividly  our  own  childish  vernacular 
that  we  unconsciously  supply  the  words  ? 

The  lemonade  vender,  with  gorgeous  shining  brasses, 
no  sooner  appears  than  small  be-fezzed  boys  swarm  about 
him.  It  must  be  recess  at  the  Turkish  school-house,  for  a 
flock  of  trousered  mites  run  gayly  to  the  fountain.  They  are 
like  a  parterre  of  tulips  in  their  brilliant  colors.  A  woman 
enveloped  in  a  superb  dark  blue  silk  and  gold-threaded 
jerediza  ambles  by,  her  parasol  matching  her  cloak  but  her 
red  and  black  tassclled  boots  striking  a  dissonant  note.  A 
white-hooded  being  approaches  and  turns  toward  the  bridge, 

242 


MOSTAR 

her  hands  discreetly  folded ;  only  a  narrow  slit  in  the  spot- 
less muslin  enables  her  to  see  her  way.  A  Servian  peasant  in 
coarse  white  linen  knickers  and  tucked-up  skirt,  a  bag  over 
her  shoulder,  stalks  by  with  a  free  and  splendid  swing,  her 
veil  blowing  back  from  her  braided  hair.  With  all  her 
toiling  she  is  more  to  be  envied  than  her  Turkish  sister 
in  the  harem. 

The  bridal  wreath  hangs  in  graceful  sprays  from  huge 
spirea  bushes ,  the  blue  paulownia  bells  lie  withering  on  the 
ground;  the  splashing  fountains  lend  a  breath  of  coolness 
to  the  air;  and  the  great  bare  mountains  of  Hum  loom  before 
us,  seamed  with  paths  and  crowned  by  forts. 

''Do  see  that  curiously  dressed  woman  coming  down  the 
street  by  the  mosque.  What  is  that  pointed  thing  she  has 
on  her  head?"  cries  the  Gentle  Lady,  breaking  the  long 
silence. 

''That  is  a  costume  peculiar  to  Mostar,"  answers  a 
voice  in  English  from  below,  and  looking  down  in  surprise 
we  discover  the  English  acquaintances  whom  we  had  left  in 
Ragusa. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  to  be  in  Sarajevo  by  this 
time.     What  luck  to  find  you  here!" 

"Yes,  we  did  intend  to  go  on  before  now,  but  we  have 
found  Mostar  so  delightful  that  we  cannot  bear  to  leave." 

"I  can  well  understand  that,"  assents  the  Gentle  Lady. 
"Now  you  must  show  us  all  the  sights." 

"First,  there  is  the  bridge,  of  course  you  know  — " 

"No,  I  don't  know  one  thing  about  Mostar,  or  what 
there  is  to  see." 

243 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

"So  much  the  better,"  is  the  answer,  "you  '11  enjoy  it 

all  the  more." 

"Are  n't  the  lights  wonderful  on  those  bare  mountains?" 
And  just  then  from  a  nearby  minaret  sounds  the  call  to 
prayer  in  mmor,  long-drawn  cadence.  To  the  four  points 
of  the  compass  the  muezzin  sends  forth  his  command  and 
from  the  depths  of  the  bazaar  and  narrow,  high-walled 
streets  gather  the  Moslem  faithful. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  out  for  a  walk?  It  is  cooler 
now,"  and  the  party  start  out  to  see  the  little  town. 

"Mostar  is  called  the  capital  of  the  Herzegovina  in 
some  books  I  have  been  reading  recently,"  says  the  Enthu- 
siast. "It  is  certainly  the  largest  city  we  have  been  in  since 
leaving  Trieste,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Spalato. 
Not  that  the  size  makes  it  attractive.  It  must  be  very 
closely  built,  for  it  does  not  seem  to  cover  much  ground." 

Just  then  we  come  out  on  the  bridge  and  stop  uncon- 
sciously to  enjoy  the  picture.  I  cannot  describe  that  exquis- 
ite arch,  which  seems  to  spring  like  a  living  thing  from  shore 
to  shore  above  the  foaming  water.  I  hear,  "It  is  sixty  feet 
from  the  water;  it  has  a  span  of  one  hundred  feet,  while  the 
Rialto  span  is  seventy-four."  The  figures  mean  nothing 
to  me,— its  rich,  creamy  color  and  its  ancient  guarding 
towers;  its  moss-grown  parapet  and  moving,  varied  throng; 
but  above  all  else  the  wonderful  perfection  of  the  whole,  — 
these  enrapture  me.  An  archaic  inscription  on  it  reads: 
"Kudret  Kemeri"— that  is,  "The  Arch  of  Almighty  God." 

I  make  an  inward  vow,  "Here  is  where  I  will  come  in 
early  morning  and  here  I  can  stay  through  long  delightful 

244 


MOSTAR 

hours.  For  a  stone  bench  extends  the  whole  length  of  the 
parapet,  and  while  I  rest  the  people  in  their  varied  daily 
tasks  will  pass  in  long  procession  to  and  fro." 

Mounting  the  incline  to  the  centre  of  the  bridge  we  look 
down  at  the  green  water  rushing  between  its  rocky  shores, 
then  raise  our  eyes  to  the  city  on  either  side.  "Eleven, 
twelve,  thirteen,"  a  voice  beside  me  counts,  and  I  turn  to 
question.  "Yes,  we  can  see  thirteen  minarets  from  here, 
I  have  counted  them." 

How  symbolical  they  are,  —  those  slender,  balconied 
towers  pointing  skyward ! 

"What  wonderful  old  trees  by  that  green-domed  mosque 
just  above  the  river!  I  wonder  whether  we  would  be 
allowed  to  see  them  a  little  nearer." 

"They  may  be  in  a  private  garden,"  suggests  the  Cautious 
One.  But  we  hurry  across  the  bridge  and  dive  down  into 
the  narrow  street  of  the  bazaar  in  eager  search  of  a  way  to 
them.  Before  a  sunlit  archway  we  linger  a  moment  and 
one  of  the  squatting  figures,  laying  aside  his  long  pipe, 
rises  and  without  a  word  leads  the  way  down  the  stone-paved 
path  and  within  the  stuccoed  wall.  Behold,  a  fountain  of 
running  water  under  a  protecting  roof,  great  spreading 
green  branches,  and  a  broad,  covered  portico  of  a  mosque. 
Here,  we  being  women  and  therefore  forbidden  entrance, 
he  halts,  removes  his  shoes  and  recites  his  formula  of  explana- 
tion in  the  few  words  of  German  which  he  knows :  — 

"The  mosque  of  Mahomet  Pasa,  the  first  one  in  Mostar, 
four  hundred  years  old,  and  that  is  the  Mecca  —  the  name 
Mahommed,  —  there  where  the  preacher  stands,  and  this 

245 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

leads  to  the  minaret,"  pointing  to  a  tiny,  winding  stair.  "I 
am  the  muezzin,"  he  proudly  adds.  The  rich  rugs,  the 
dim  light,  a  cross-legged  figure  conning  the  Koran  by  a  low 
window,  the  age-mellowed  walls  and  Moorish  lattices  make 
a  most  effective  picture. 

Turning  away  we  linger  in  the  charming,  restful  portico, 
enjoying  the  peaceful  scene.  Between  the  waving  branches 
of  the  great  trees  we  see  the  Narenta  girt  round  with  lovely 
mountains.  Across  the  high  arch  of  the  old  stone  bridge 
moves  a  procession  of  gayly  dressed  figures,  so  quaint,  so 
mystical!  Are  we  dreaming,  or  is  this  an  Arabian  Night's 
tale  come  true  ? 

As  we  wander  homeward  a  peculiarly  lovely  bird-song 
rises  on  the  silent  air.  I  look  up  startled.  "Yes,  it  is  our 
nightingale,"  our  English  companions  proudly  answer  my 
unspoken  question.  "They  sing  here  constantly,  every- 
where, even  in  the  hedges  along  the  railroad  track." 

The  calendar  declares  it  to  be  the  ninth  of  May,  but  the 
air  is  like  July;  one  looks  in  vain  for  any  tiny  cloud  in  the 
brilliant  blue.  Tablelands  of  mountains  cut  sharply  into 
the  sky,  their  deep  clefts  and  projecting  angles  casting 
shadows,  pink  and  mauve  and  green.  An  exquisite  weep- 
ing hemlock  rises  above  my  window  and  seems  as  foil  to  the 
"  Hetres-a- papier^ ^  (beeches)  in  the  park  below. 

A  woman  wearing  the  full  Turkish  trousers  passes,  lead- 
ing a  tiny  child  by  the  hand,  and  balancing  on  her  head  a 
board  on  which  rest  two  round  loaves  of  unbaked  bread. 
Is  she  going  to  the  public  oven?  The  combination  of 
Turkish  trousers,  a  gingham  apron,  and  exposed  head  is 

246 


MOSTAR 

amusingly  incongruous,  but  even  the  Catholic  women  wear 
these  mannish  garments.  On  Sundays  they  are  of  black 
silk,  rich  and  full  and  long.  It  is  comical  to  see  the  stately 
matrons  endeavor  to  lift  them  up  from  the  dusty  highway  as 
they  walk.  But  the  fashionable  out-of-door  costume  for 
Turkish  women  in  Mostar  has  been  so  graphically  de- 
scribed by  Major  Henderson  in  his  delightful  book 
on  the  Balkans  that  I  cannot  do  better  than  transcribe  his 
words : 

''Figure  to  yourself  a  long,  very  thick,  dark  blue  great- 
coat, very  similar  to  that  worn  by  Mr.  Thomas  Atkins, 
except  that  it  is  furnished  with  an  enormous  collar  stand- 
ing up  nearly  a  foot  in  height.  This  garment  is  thrown 
over  the  wearer,  whom  it  envelops,  head  and  all ;  the  hook 
fastened,  not  over  the  throat,  but  just  below  the  nose,  leav- 
ing the  high  stiff  collar  to  project  forwards,  above  and 
beyond  the  forehead,  a  huge  beak.  The  chink  left  open 
below  this  in  the  shadow  of  the  projecting  beak  is  fitted  in 
with  a  muslin  mask  that  covers  the  eyes  of  the  wearer. 
The  cloak  is  hooked  closely  all  the  way  down,  with  the  sleeves 
pinned  back  and  flapping  loosely,  rather  like  embryo  wings. 
Huge  black  or  bright  yellow  clumsy,  untanned  boots  com- 
plete the  costume." 

In  yellow  trousers  with  red  polka  dots  and  short  red 
blouse,  her  black  round  cap  clutched  in  her  hand,  one  lively 
little  girl  stole  a  ride  on  the  bottom  step  of  the  hotel  omnibus 
that  morning,  as  it  went  slowly  around  to  the  front  door. 
Here  in  true  feminine  fashion  she  stepped  off  backwards 
and  rolled  in  the  dust,  showing  her  bare  feet  in  wooden 

247 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

sabots.  She  must  have  had  something  to  eat  in  her  hand, 
for,  as  she  rose  and  shook  her  cotton  clothes,  two  geese  with 
outstretched  necks  barred  her  way.  She  "shooed"  at  them 
in  vain,  and  finally  had  to  slip  behind  some  passing  pedes- 
trians to  get  by. 

A  merciful  Mussulman  has  stopped  his  horses  with  their 
load  of  logs  and  brings  them,  one  by  one,  fresh  water  from 
the  fountain.  The  sweetmeat  seller  comes  into  the  park, 
slowly  trundling  his  attractive  cart,  and  like  a  swarm  of  but- 
terflies the  kerchiefed  children  surround  him,  two  having 
babies  in  their  arms.  Should  one  of  the  number  be  so  for- 
tunate as  to  have  the  necessary  penny,  the  rest  look  on  with 
devouring  eyes  while  she  slowly  consumes  the  cold  fiorini 
(ice  cream). 

From  the  tourist's  standpoint  there  are  not  many  "sights" 
in  Mostar ;  but  there  are  pictures,  living  ones  at  all  times,  and 
the  costumes  are  even  more  varied  and  attractive  than  in 
Dalmatia,  —  which  is  saying  much.  The  Oriental  char- 
acter of  the  buildings,  too,  forms  a  fitting  background  and 
the  brilliant  white  light  reminds  one  of  Cairo  and  the  East. 
In  the  bazaar,  through  high-walled  streets,  beside  the 
mosque,  on  the  curving  bridge,  men,  women,  and  children 
gather  in  gaudy  groups  daily;  but  on  Sunday  the  service  in 
the  Franciscan  church  is  a  sight  long  to  be  remembered. 
The  soldiers  in  their  khaki  and  red  fezes  forming  one  solid 
mass  of  color;  the  peasants  in  their  gay-embroidered  sleeve- 
less jackets  over  clean  white  shirts,  full  baggy  trousers,  white 
gaiters  and  opanka  and  scarlet  fezes;  the  white-gowned 
women  with  veils  over  their  coin- bedecked  head-dresses; 

248 


*  I 


^'•^ 


■r 


I  1 


AF-TKR    SKK\I(K    A  I'     IIIK    !■  R.WClSCA.s"    CIlURCn,    MOS  PAR 
TPIK    MK.\"    AKIC    i;<)l\I.LV    I'lC  ll'kl-.SI  )l|-. 


MOSTAR 

all  rising,  bowing,  or  kneeling  in  unison,  produce  an  effect 
as  striking  as  it  is  picturesque. 

Nor  is  the  scene  less  charming  when  the  congregation 
pours  out  into  the  sunlight  and  under  the  shady  trees  of  the 
clean  white  street,  the  groups  mingle  in  friendly  intercourse. 
They  have  no  horror  of  the  camera,  either, —  these  pleasant 
people;  but  the  Turks,  even  the  men,  shake  their  heads  in 
silent  negation  when  the  subject  is  broached. 

"What  a  hideous  custom  that  is  of  staining  the  hair 
brick  red  with  henna,"  comments  the  Gentle  Lady,  as  a 
trousered  girl  so  decorated  passes  us.  "Do  you  suppose 
that  medal  hanging  down  in  front,  like  a  label,  on  her  cap, 
is  an  amulet  to  keep  off  the  evil  eye,  a  mere  ornament,  or 
her  name  in  case  she  should  get  lost?" 

But  our  attention  is  diverted  by  the  sound  of  music.  "I 
do  believe  it  is  a  'gusla'''  I  excitedly  exclaim,  "can't  we  go 
down  that  street  and  see?" 

Looking  on  from  a  respectful  distance  we  watch  the  old 
musician  twanging  on  the  national  banjo  and  the  dancing 
circle  in  the  street;  but,  alas!  —  this  group  of  Servians  are 
so  well-to-do  that  they  have  discarded  their  national  cos- 
tumes and  donned  the  prosaic  clothes  of  civilization. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  wedding,"  answers  a  pleasant  young  Herze- 
govinian,  stopping  to  look  at  the  pretty  scene,  "and  that  is 
the  bride."  She  wears  no  veil  nor  different  costume  from 
the  others,  but  the  groom  is  distinguished  by  a  broad  blue 
and  white  sash  worn  over  his  shoulder. 

"What  does  that  queer  white  cap,  like  a  chef's,  mean 
on  that  woman?"  I  ask  without  making  any  attempt  to 

249 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

moderate  my  voice,  for  we  have  been  so  long  in  far-away 
places  that  it  never  occurs  to  me  that  any  one  can  under- 
stand. But  the  woman  gives  me  so  keen  a  glance  that  I 
unconsciously  apologize. 

"It  is  the  cap  of  the  Jewess,  I  think,"  replies  my  com- 
panion after  a  moment.  "Sometimes  they  wear  a  sort  of 
queer  decorated  round  rim  which  may  be  pasteboard, 
although  it  has  all  the  appearance  of  a  tin  pan." 

On  Saturday  evening  the  military  band  played  in  the 
park  from  seven-thirty  until  midnight,  and  all  the  fashion 
of  the  city  in  latest  Viennese  toilets  gathered  about  the  many 
tables  bright  with  pretty  lanterns.  From  our  balcony  it 
was  like  looking  down  on  a  stage  scene,  the  speckless  uni- 
forms of  the  military  adding  not  a  little  to  the  "brilliancy 
of  the  occasion."  My  last  recollections  that  night  were  of 
gay  laughter  and  the  pleasant  hum  of  many  voices  between 
the  strains  of  waltz  music  from  the  regimental  band. 


250 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
MOSTAR  TO   SARAJEVO 

"IX/HEN  we  finally  induce  Madame  Content  "to  take  to 
the  road  again,"  it  is  still  hot  and  the  sun  blazes  from 
the  clearest  of  skies.  A  latticed  window  in  the  Turkish 
quarter  half  opens  and,  looking  up,  we  catch  a  glimpse  of 
long-lashed  eyes  above  a  gauzy  veil.  In  the  Moslem  ceme- 
tery high  yellow  wild  flowers  conceal  the  stones;  over  our 
road  hang  locust  blossoms  thick  with  bees;  and  in  the 
grain  fields  on  either  side  bloom  scarlet  poppies  and  "  Queen 
Anne's  lace."  The  hedges  are  pink  with  roses  as  we  cross 
the  wide  valley,  facing  the  Prenj  Alp,  with  snowy  Velez 
on  the  east. 

"Snowy,  did  you  say?"  questions  the  Gentle  Lady. 
"It  seems  incredible."  And  she  pushes  back  her  veil  to 
get  a  breath  of  air. 

A  caravan  of  horses  laden  with  firewood  descends 
from  the  mountains  led  by  women.  Later  we  meet  an 
industrious  peasant  woman  twirling  a  carved  spindle  of 
wool  as  she  walks  rapidly  along,  driving  her  pack-mule. 
European  mountain  ash  are  in  blossom  and  flocks  of 
birds  rise  overhead, — yellow,  black,  white,  and  brown, 
in   tantalizing  variety. 

Just  without  the  gorge  lies  a  group  of  Bogomile  stones 
in  a  field  about  three  hundred  feet  from  the  road,  and  we  go 
over  to  look  at  them.     They  are  most  extraordinary   in 

251 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

their  huge  bulk  and  barbaric  markings.  As  we  return  to 
the  car  we  beg  the  Leader  to  enhghten  us.  "The  name, 
even,  is  new  to  me,"  remarks  the  Enthusiast  in  a  grieved 
tone. 

This  is  in  substance  what  he  says:  The  Bogomiles  are  a 
religious  sect  among  the  southern  Slavs,  who,  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  rebelled  against  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  and  founded  this  kind  of  Protestantism.  At  first 
they  were  protected  both  in  Servia  and  Bosnia,  and  the  faith 
made  rapid  strides,  even  reaching  to  Cattaro,  Spalato,  and 
Zara.  Strenuous  persecution  began  and  continued  for  cen- 
turies ;  but  they  have  never  been  entirely  extirpated  and  even 
as  late  as  1876  it  is  recorded  that  over  2000  Bogomiles  took 
refuge  in  Ragusa  from  the  one  district  of  Popovo  in  the 
Herzegovina.  Little  is  really  known  of  their  habits  or  opin- 
ions, as  their  annals  have  been  written  by  their  enemies,  and 
their  faith  is  held  in  secret  to  this  day.  In  various  parts  of 
the  country  their  strangely  shaped  gravestones  have  been 
found,  some  with  rude  carvings,  and  in  the  museum  at 
Sarajevo  are  reproductions  of  the  most  important  examples. 
One  of  these  is  a  block  between  nine  and  ten  feet  long,  four 
and  a  half  feet  broad,  and  five  feet  high,  with  elaborately 
sculptured  sides.  It  is  supposed  to  have  belonged  to  a  Djett 
or  Bogomile  bishop. 

About  sixteen  kilometers  from  Mostar  we  enter  the 
gorge  of  the  Narenta,  the  great  precipices  of  the  Velez 
(6450  feet)  on  our  right.  The  flowering  may,  the  fig,  the 
wild  pomegranate,  even  the  faithful  giant  spurge  struggle  in 
vain  to  cover  these  rocky  slopes.     Beside  us,  a  foaming 

252 


A\    IXTRRKSrlXO    GKOUV    I\    IHK    XARKXTA    \  ALLF.Y 
IIERZKOOVIXIAX    CIULDREX    XEAR   JAI'.LAXICA 


MOSTAR    TO    SARAJEVO 

green  torrent  rushes  down  a  succession  of  low  terraces  into 
the  Narenta. 

"That  must  be  the  Schwarzequelle,"  cries  the  Enthu- 
siast, "now  we  are  in  the  'Great  Defile.'"  The  strata  of 
rocks  opposite  are  lying  in  tilted  swirls,  their  lines  accentu- 
ated by  low  trees  and  bushes;  on  our  right  tower  castellated 
crags  and  through  the  gorge  of  the  Drezanjka  River  we  see  a 
succession  of  snow-touched  peaks.  Our  own  valley  grows 
more  contracted  and  traces  of  avalanches  occur  at  intervals 
close  to  the  road.  We  notice  a  large  apiary,  a  wayside 
memorial  cross,  a  cluster  of  thatched  huts,  with  vineyards 
wrung  from  the  rocky  slope.  Often  a  heavy  wall  is  built 
against  the  encroachments  of  snow.  A  strange  conglomerate 
formation  curves  over  the  road,  looking  as  if  it  would 
crumble  at  a  touch,  but  it  is  as  hard  as  iron.  Against 
the  sky  is  seen  a  perfect  outline  of  the  Madonna  and  Child 
in  heavy  drapery  done  by  Nature's  hand. 

Going  through  a  short  tunnel,  we  perceive  an  extensive 
valley  on  our  right,  near  Grabovica,  where  the  fantastic 
dolomite  formation  gives  the  rocks  all  manner  of  strange 
disguises.  How  blue  the  sky  is  beside  their  rich  brown 
hue !  Passing  another  series  of  cascades,  we  cross  the  river 
and  exchange  sides  with  the  railroad.  On  our  right  the 
valley  of  Glogosnica,  with  its  fantastic  peaks  and  crags  and 
tilted  strata,  is  the  wildest  we  have  yet  seen.  Beside  us 
the  Komadinaquella  gushes  from  beneath  the  mountain 
wall  and  flows  under  the  road,  falling  into  the  Narenta  some 
seventy  feet  below. 

Now  the  magnificent  snow-fields  of  the  Prenj  Alp  ap- 

253 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

pear,  above  verdant,  overlapping  mountains.  It  is  a  beauti- 
ful scene !  The  greens  of  the  forest  and  of  the  new  gTa'n  are 
intensified  by  the  blue  lights  upon  the  snow  of  the  Prenj. 
Before  us  the  river  winds  in  serpentine  bends.  Under  arch- 
ing walnuts  our  route  runs  by  scattered  houses  and  at  last 
a  shady  garden,  into  which  we  turn.  It  is  Jablanica,  and 
here  we  have  our  luncheon. 

"It  is  really  cooler  in  the  house,"  remarks  the  Leader, 
but  we  prefer  ''God's  out-of-doors."  When  the  Judas  tree 
is  pink  with  bloom;  when  the  air  is  filled  with  fluttering 
chestnut  blossoms;  when  the  mountain  ash  and  blue  paul- 
ownia  are  gay  with  flowers;  when  columbines  and  roses 
combine  to  feast  the  eye;  when  mocking  birds  and  black- 
birds are  whistling  their  delight  —  who  could  for  a  moment 
desire  to  calmly  stay  indoors?  We  feed  the  dog,  we  feed 
the  chickens,  we  even  feed  the  sparrows,  and  I  think  the 
only  reason  the  crows  do  not  come  down  to  our  jesta  is  that 
they  are  not  hungry. 

Our  black  coffee  is  brought  over  from  the  cafe  by  an 
imposing,  white-turbaned  Turk,  who,  in  his  brilliant  cos- 
tume, carefully  balancing  the  three  tiny  long-handled  brass 
pots,  approaches  slowly  down  the  avenue,  making  a  picture 
which  I  long  to  reproduce.  Out  of  deference  to  foreign 
prejudices,  this  coffee  is  made  without  sugar,  and  served 
in  cups  that  carry  me  back  to  my  childhood  days  when  just 
such  dishes  for  my  dolls  filled  my  heart  with  joy! 

"How  different  the  Herzegovina  is  from  Dalmatia  or 
Montenegro,"  muses  the  Gentle  Lady.  "One  would  sup- 
pose that  mountains  and  rocky  precipices  would  have  a 

254 


MOSTAR    TO    SARAJEVO 

close  resemblance  to  each  other,  but  all  those  were  so  gray, 
so  desolate,  like  the  burned-out  craters  of  the  moon;  while 
here  the  vegetation  in  the  valleys  extends  far  up  the  hillsides 
and  the  colors  of  the  highest  peaks,  when  not  white  with 
snow,  are  a  soft,  warm  brown." 

''I  suppose  this  is  a  sandstone,"  continued  the  Enthu- 
siast, "It  is  almost  like  the  Grand  Canon  formation  in 
places,  is  n't  it?" 

''This  afternoon  we  have  the  Ivan  Pass,"  said  the  Leader, 
"3172  feet." 

''How  high  are  we  here?" 

"Only  665  feet." 

"Well,  we  will  certainly  have  some  climbing  to  do 
and  the  wind  —  what  there  is  of  it  —  is  behind  us.  Let 
us  hope  the  grades  are  not  steep  and  the  roads  are 
smooth." 

"We  ought  to  have  some  fine  scenery,"  replies  the  Leader, 
quite  ignoring  such  prosaic  considerations,  and  we  start  off 
in  the  highest  of  spirits.  Crossing  the  Narenta,  —  with 
splendid  views  of  the  Prenj  Alp  behind  us,  —  on  an  excel- 
lent road  above  the  now  foaming  torrent,  —  clinging  to  the 
grateful  shade  of  the  green  hillside,  with  more  woody 
mountains  before  and  waterfalls  at  frequent  intervals,  cool- 
ing the  air  with  their  spray,  —  we  come,  at  length,  to  a  sharp 
bend  in  the  river  and  a  crossroad  with  a  sign-post  marked 
"Prozor"  in  Latin  characters. 

"That  is  the  direct  road  to  Jajce,  up  the  Rama  valley," 
points  the  Leader.  "We  could  take  it  by  returning  here 
from  Sarajevo.     They  say  the  scenery  is  very  fine.     But 


MOTORING    IN  THE    BALKANS 

there  is  another  shorter  way  by  Kseljak  and  Travnik,  joining 
this  road  at  Vakuf." 

We  cross  the  river  and  follow  it,  going  almost  due  east, 
past  the  snowy  range  of  Bjelasnica  on  our  left,  past  Ostrovac, 
and  enter  an  open  valley  with  cultivated  slopes.  Below  us 
a  cluster  of  stone-roofed  huts,  with  a  minaret  in  a  level  spot 
close  to  the  river,  denotes  Sisicic. 

"I  'm  sure  we  could  n't  wish  for  a  better  road,  so  far," 
remarks  the  Gentle  Lady.  "It  is  neither  dusty  nor  muddy, 
and  we  have  it  pretty  nearly  to  ourselves." 

On  again  by  the  river's  brink  through  a  gorge  where  we 
catch  glimpses  of  snow-crowned  Visocica  Planina  above  the 
nearer  hills,  we  come  to  a  bridge  of  graceful  arches  with 
red-roofed,  latticed  houses  in  high-walled  gardens  on  the 
other  side.  This  is  Konjica,  formerly  a  border  town  between 
the  Herzegovina  and  Bosnia,  later  the  seat  of  a  Turkish 
governor,  and  now  the  centre  for  excursions  to  the  sur- 
rounding peaks.  We  glide  over  the  ancient  bridge  and 
through  the  thronged  bazaar  and,  leaving  the  Narenta 
River,  turn  into  the  Trescanica  valley.  As  we  pass  under 
the  railroad,  I  notice  that  the  "Wamung"  is  in  Turkish, 
Croatian,  Hungarian  and,  of  course,  the  official  language, 
German. 

The  Trescanica  is  a  beautiful  tumbling  mountain  tor- 
rent ;  soon  we  cross  it,  and  begin  to  climb  the  Ivan  Pass.  Here 
the  road  is  a  bit  stony  and  the  grades  are  a  trifle  steep,  but 
it  is  the  following  south  wind  which  makes  our  faithful 
motor  car  rebel.  As  we  stop  at  a  convenient  cascade,  a 
shepherd  lad  upon  the  green  hillside  is  playing  on  his  lute; 

256 


MOSTAR    TO    SARAJEVO 

the  strain  is  exquisitely  melodious,  and  re-echoes  in  the  silent 
mountain  glen.  An  old  woman,  toothless,  but  with  friendly 
smile,  has  come  up  to  the  car,  twirling  rapidly  her  spindle  as 
she  walks.  We  indicate  by  gestures  our  delight  in  the 
musical  shepherd  call,  and  she  is  manifestly  pleased  at  our 
appreciation.  I  ask  her  whether  I  may  take  her  picture  and 
she  is  very  much  amused,  but  poses  with  willing  grace, 
while  her  daughter  looks  on  in  satisfaction. 

"I  am  so  glad  that  we  have  to  stop  occasionally,"  cries 
the  Enthusiast.  ''It  brings  us  so  near  the  people  of  the 
country,  and  they  are  such  a  kindly  sort." 

As  we  go  on,  ascending  in  two  loops,  we  look  back 
again  at  the  Prenj  Alp,  and  see  just  above  it  the  white  half 
circle  of  the  rising  moon.  The  hillside  shades  us  for  a 
short  way,  while  the  river  falls  in  a  succession  of  foaming 
rapids  far  below.  As  we  stop  by  a  brook  to  fill  our  pail, 
in  case  of  need,  we  see  a  tree  on  fire!  Has  it  been  struck 
by  lightning  or  — 

"Oh,  look!"  cries  the  Gentle  Lady.  Beyond  the  danc- 
ing river,  the  white  houses  of  Brdjani  rise  in  a  gentle  incline 
to  meet  young  apple  orchards,  pink  with  blossoms.  Above, 
the  hills  are  clothed  with  verdure  to  the  snow  line,  whence  in 
wonderful  majesty  of  outline,  extends  the  Prenj  Alp! 
Beyond  Zukici  the  clifTs  approach  so  near  that  there  is  just 
room  for  the  railroad,  the  road,  and  a  splendid  waterfall  as 
the  Trescanica  makes  a  leap  into  the  glen  below.  Gnarled 
chestnuts,  white  birch  and  beech  trees  flourish  in  the  pretty, 
high-lying  valley.  Passing  a  tumble-down  mill,  we  cross 
the  stream  and  railroad.     It  is  Bradina. 

357 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

The  cherry-trees  are  in  blossom,  —  such  enormous  ones  I 
never  saw!  They  are  like  forest  trees  and  apparently  grow 
wild,  as  they  are  scattered  on  the  slopes  in  the  midst  of  oaks 
and  alders.  As  we  climb,  the  full  length  of  the  tremendous 
Prenj  Alp  closes  the  valley  behind  us.  The  rippling  stream 
and  the  wooded  hills  are  forgotten  in  wonder  at  the  chang- 
ing lights,  blue,  pink,  and  mauve,  over  the  snowy  fields  of 
that  great  jagged  mass. 

At  the  top  of  the  Ivan  Pass,  — 3172  feet,  or  "961  M," 
as  the  sign-post  says,  — we  cross  the  frontier,  leaving  the 
Herzegovina  with  her  magnificent  mountain  scenery,  and 
enter  Bosnia. 

"This  is  the  watershed  between  the  Adriatic  and  the 
Black  Sea,"  says  the  Leader.  "The  Black  Sea"  sounds 
Asiatic,  indeed.  How  deliciously  cool  the  air  is  as  we  slide 
down  through  green  and  shady  forests,  winding  in  and  out 
above  a  green  valley!  What  though  the  road  be  narrow  and 
covered  with  stone,  —  have  we  not  ample  compensation? 

A  new  snow  mountain  appears.  "It  is  Igman  Planina, 
I  think,"  says  the  Leader,  but  my  attention  is  distracted  by 
a  flock  of  long-wooled  sheep  branded  in  red,  that  will  not 
leave  the  road. 

"You  must  look  at  that  big  cherry-tree,  there  in  the 
woods,"  cries  Madame  Content. 

"That  is  a  giant,"  agrees  the  Leader.  "It  must  be 
two  and  one-half  feet  through." 

We  whirl  through  Rastelica,  whose  wooden  houses 
resemble  Alpine  chalets,  and  a  few  minutes  after  get  another 

superb  view. 

258 


ONK   or     lllK    lAIKS:      (ON    THE    INAX    PASS  i 
WOODEN   SPINDLES   IN   THE    MUSEUM,    SARAJEVO 


MOSTAR    TO    SARAJEVO 

*'It  is  Igman  again,  —  we  are  coming  nearer,"  says  the 
Leader.  With  what  grandeur  it  Hfts  its  snowy  summits 
above  the  fruitful  fields!  Passing  the  sawmills  of  Tarcin 
on  the  Lepenica  River,  and  going  cautiously  over  the 
Vilovac  Saddle,  for  the  road  is  rough,  we  come  to  Pazaric, 
where  a  gypsy  camp,  with  its  tents,  bonfires,  and  swarm 
of  dusky  children,  makes  a  pleasing  picture. 

Barren  heights  and  stony  downs  are  behind  us  now,  for 
Bosnia  is  one  of  the  most  heavily  timbered  countries  in 
Europe.  As  far  as  we  can  see  in  every  direction  green  fields 
and  forests  mount  the  hills  to  the  snow  line;  we  are  enter- 
ing the  Bosna  valley  and  soon  cross  and  recross  one  of  its 
tributaries,  the  Zujevina.  Past  the  big  saw  mills  of  Hadzici, 
past  the  inn  of  Krizanje,  where  the  road  leads  off  to  Jajce, 
we  speed  on  our  way. 

There  seem  to  be  two  distinct  types  of  houses  in  all  these 
villages,  one  low  and  square,  with  latticed  windows  and 
overhanging  eaves,  which  we  soon  learn  belongs  to  the 
Turk;  and  one  with  a  very  steep  pointed  gable,  as  if  it 
could  not  sufficiently  emphasize  its  difference,  which  belongs 
to  the  Christian.  After  crossing  the  Bosna,  we  get  a  charm- 
ing view  of  Sarajevo,  seven  miles  away,  but  turn  aside  to 
the  pretty  park  of  Ilidze,  on  the  Zeljeznica,  where  there  is  a 
group  of  summer  hotels,  an  open-air  restaurant,  and  delight- 
ful hot  sulphur  baths. 

How  heavenly  it  seems  to  find  a  fine  hotel  away  from  the 
rush  and  roar,  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  city!  This  sulphur 
spring  which  here  bubbles  up  from  the  earth  at  a  tempera- 
ture of  136  degrees  Fahrenheit  was  well  known  even  in 

259 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

Roman  times.  Blossoming  trees  shed  their  sweet  perfume, 
the  moon  casts  wavering  shadows  on  our  vine-hung  balcony, 
and  nightingales  fill  the  still  air  with  music.  ''Here,  too, 
I  stay,"  quoth  my  Lady  Content,  and  no  one  says  her  nay. 
The  next  morning,  after  a  leisurely  breakfast,  we  motor 
to  Sarajevo  for  a  day  of  sight-seeing.  It  seems  strange  that 
even  in  the  motor  we  are  too  warm.  Four  rows  of  chestnut- 
trees  extend  along  the  avenue  the  whole  distance,  but  the 
road  is  very  dusty  from  much  use,  and  none  too  smooth. 
Sarajevo  at  first  sight  is  disappointingly  modern.  During 
the  last  thirty  years  under  Austrian  administration  much 
has  been  done  to  sweep  away  the  old  order  of  things,  to 
replace  the  Asiatic  by  the  European,  and  the  attempt  has 
been  lamentably  successful. 

"But  the  museum,"  I  cry,  ''that  should  be  interesting." 
The  Gentle  Lady  and  I  wait  near  the  post  office  in  a  strip 
of  shady  sidewalk,  while  the  Leader  seeks  the  custodian, — 
for  the  place  is  closed.  It  takes  some  time,  but  he  is  finally 
successful  and  we  mount  three  flights  of  stairs  to  a  hospitable 
door.  Rarely  has  a  museum  appeared  to  me  so  enticing. 
Cool  and  clean  and  quiet,  the  change  from  the  sizzling 
streets  is  in  itself  a  treat.  The  small  rooms  contain  figures 
of  peasants  lying,  sitting,  or  standing,  and  are  furnished 
with  ancient  ceilings,  woodwork,  and  hangings.  Each  form 
being  carefully  labelled,  well  made,  and  attired  in  the 
choicest  embroideries  and  stuffs,  the  whole  forms  a  wonder- 
fully life-like,  entertaining,  and  instructive  collection  of 
Bosnian  and  Hcrzcgovinian  costumes  and  customs.  Native 
jewelry,  old  belts  and  waistcoats;  embroideries,  harnesses, 

260 


A\  u.\f:\rr;c'iEij  meeiixc;:    ycju.\(;  'iurkish  gjrls 

(SARAJKVO) 


MOSTAR    TO    SARAJEVO 

and  carved  spindles;  repousse  silver-handled  blunderbusses, 
swords,  and  knives;  wooden  cups,  scythe-handles,  and  whet- 
ting cases,  rich  in  native  carving;  various  household  utensils 
and  even  model  villages ;  everything  illustrating  the  ancient 
and  modem  life  of  the  people  is  gathered  together  here. 
There  is  also  a  prehistoric  collection  of  tombs  with  bronze 
ornaments,  in  situ;  papier  mache  replicas  of  famous  Bogo- 
mile  stones ;  birds  beautifully  arranged  for  reference ;  mush- 
rooms mounted  and  labelled;  and  a  botanical  department 
from  which  it  is  difficult  to  tear  oneself.  Here  we  stay 
until  hunger  drives  us  to  the  hotel  for  luncheon,  and  after- 
ward we  rest  for  an  hour  in  the  very  hottest  part  of  the  day. 
Every  one  assures  us  that  this  heat  is  exceptional  at  this 
time  of  the  year. 

Fortunately  we  consult  no  thermometer,  but  it  must  be 
nearly  loo  degrees  Fahrenheit  in  the  shade.  The  sun  feels 
a  bit  scorching  and  I  notice  that  most  of  the  natives  take 
pains  to  walk  in  the  thin  strip  of  shade  on  the  street,  so  I 
follow  their  example  when,  led  by  a  guide,  we  start  out  to 
see  the  sights. 

''There  are  over  two  hundred  mosques  in  Sarajevo,  but 
by  a  regulation  recently  passed  no  Christian  is  allowed  in 
any  of  them,"  so  we  content  ourselves  with  the  outside, 
glancing  at  the  shady  courtyards  with  the  inevitable  foun- 
tain and  the  groups  of  picturesque  men. 

Our  guide  takes  us,  however,  to  see  an  ancient  Servian 
or  Greek  church,  shut  away  from  the  business  street  within  a 
shady  court,  where  beneath  a  loggia  there  are  arrangements 
for  out-of-door  services.     It  looks  odd  to  see  the  name  of 

261 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

Christ  outlined  in  colored  lights  upon  the  wall.  The  small 
dark  interior  of  the  church,  with  its  gilded  iconostas,  its 
many  pillars  and  few  windows  reminds  us  forcibly  of 
Russia. 

We  visit  the  new  town  hall,  from  the  upper  windows 
of  which  one  gets  a  good  view  of  the  city.  But  to  the 
Occidental  visitor  the  real  interest  of  Sarajevo  is  in  the 
bazaar  and  the  endlessly  queer  street  scenes.  One  mer- 
chant is  selling  cherries  from  a  large  round  tray,  but  fond 
as  I  am  of  fruit,  these  look  too  young  and  hard  to  taste. 
A  group  of  trousered  maidens  lost  in  curious  contemplation 
of  us,  half  drop  their  protecting  drapery  from  before  their 
faces.  One  bazaar  is  underground  and  dehghtfully  cool 
and  comfortable.  An  open  market-place  is  faced  with  tiny, 
box-like  booths  in  two  stories,  each  so  low  that  the  owner 
sitting  cross-legged  on  the  floor  almost  touches  the  roof  with 
his  turban.  A  tailor  is  often  at  work  below  and  a  wood- 
carver  above ;  or  a  shoemaker  at  his  last,  beneath  a  merchant 
of  brasses;  bundles  of  firewood  stand  sociably  by  the  old- 
clothes  dealers;  a  man  passes,  laden  with  ropes  of  all  sizes 
in  a  basket  on  his  back  and  in  rings  and  loops  around 
his  neck  and  on  his  arm;  another  selling  cornucopias  of 
popcorn  from  a  tray  balanced  on  his  head.  Long-wooled 
sheep  are  driven  in  to  market,  the  lambs  carried  around 
the  neck  exactly  as  in  the  catacomb  pictures  of  the  Good 
Shepherd. 

In  the  grain  market,  too,  there  is  a  wonderful  play  of 
color,  many  sauntering  purchasers,  groups  about  the  weigh- 
ing machine,  and  long  rows  of  burlap  bags  filled  with  different 

262 


MOSTAR    TO    SARAJEVO 

seeds  and  presided  over  by  dignified  peasants.  Fruit  and 
vegetable  markets  are  always  attractive,  but  here  they  are  out 
in  such  a  glare  of  radiating  heat  that  no  amount  of  strange 
new  types  tempt  us  to  linger.  We  are  glad  to  get  into  the 
motor  again  and  flee  from  pavements  and  close  stucco 
houses  to  our  cool  retreat  beyond  the  Bosna  River. 


263 


CHAPTER  XXV 
ILIDZE    TO    JAJCE   VIA  TRAVNIK 

'T^HE  sun  sets  this  evening  with  the  colors  of  the  Red 
Sea,  changing  from  golden  into  lemon,  then  to  orange, 
almost  crimson,  with  soft  greenish  touches.  The  moonlight 
is  so  entrancing  that  we  saunter  out  into  the  park,  through 
shadowed  pathways  and  open  spaces,  on  to  a  pond,  guided 
by  a  chorus  of  happy  frogs. 

In  the  distance,  bright  colored  lights  and  merry  voices  tell 
of  a  native  kavana,  or  caje,  and  the  low  growl  of  a  bear 
warns  us  that  we  are  near  the  zoological  garden.  We  retrace 
our  steps  to  the  vine-hung  pergola;  strangely  enough  to  us, 
there  is  no  dew,  but  that  delicious  cool  air  which  the  night 
brings  to  a  garden. 

Under  the  awning  on  our  own  broad  terrace,  we  listen 
to  the  nightingale's  romantic  song;  a  gentle  twitter,  as  if  to 
ask  his  mate,  "Are  you  asleep?"  and  then  a  soft  whistle, 
a  lovely  trill,  a  burst  of  melody,  over  and  over  again. 

One  morning,  the  large  formal  garden  beneath  my 
window  is  bare  and  devoid  of  a  semblance  of  plant  life ;  only 
the  grass  borders  are  green.  On  our  return  from  Sarajevo, 
in  the  afternoon,  I  rub  my  eyes  to  see  whether  I  am  dream- 
ing. What  a  wonderful  climate  Bosnia  possesses!  Banana 
plants  have  appeared  and  grown  to  three  feet  high,  geraniums, 
heliotrope,  salvia,  pansies,  even  roses  and  fuchsias  have  come 
out  of  the  ground  and  brought   forth  blossoms,  —  it  is 

264 


ILIDZE    TO    JAJCE    VIA    TRAVNIK 

Aladdin's  magical  lamp  again!  I  don't  know  at  what  time 
the  gardeners  begin  their  work,  but  at  6 130  they  are  in  the 
midst  of  it,  — between  8  and  8:30  they  all  disappear,  pos- 
sibly for  coffee.  In  their  spotless  turbans,  red  vests  and 
broad  sashes,  dark  full  trousers,  embroidered  leggings,  and 
pointed  opanka,  they  are  very  decorative  among  the  flowers. 
Every  bit  of  watering  is  done  with  a  sprinkling  pot  filled 
again  and  again  from  a  convenient  fountain. 

A  flock  of  goldfinches  flash  by  in  the  dazzling  sunshine. 
I  hear  the  strident  note  of  the  cuckoo,  then  his  call,  and  see 
the  white  thumb-marks  on  his  tail  as  he  flies  silently  into  the 
wood.  The  golden  oriole  gives  his  flute-like  call  over  and 
over  again,  and  the  magpies  are  both  numerous  and  noisy. 
The  bees  are  almost  too  friendly,  for  they  whiz  in  and  out 
of  one's  room  and  help  themselves  to  the  sweets  on  the  out- 
of-door  breakfast  table. 

I  do  not  get  accustomed  to  the  mode  of  salutation  which 
has  pursued  us  ever  since  entering  Austria.  I  open  my 
door  to  bring  in  my  shoes.  ''Kiiss  die  Hand,^^  salutes  some 
one  from  the  corridor ;  a  knock  on  the  door,  —  as  I  call 
''Herein,''^  I  hear  again,  " Kiiss  die  Hand,' ^  and  my  morning 
coffee  walks  in;  the  woman  in  charge  of  the  '^Bad,''  not  only 
says  ^^Kiiss  die  Hand,''  but  does  it,  as  I  enter  and  leave;  the 
cashier  who  changes  my  bill,  the  porter  who  opens  the  door, 
even  the  little  girl  scrubbing  the  steps  as  I  pass  explodes  with 
'^Kiiss  die  Hand,"  until  I  am  shaking  with  the  absurdity  of  it. 
I  am  embarrassed,  too,  by  my  own  discourtesy  in  accepting 
so  much  and  never  even  answering  ''You  're  welcome." 
I  have  never  learned  just  what  to  say. 

265 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

The  notices  in  the  rooms  here  are  in  German,  Hungarian. 
Slavic,  and  Turkish.  Not  only  the  names  on  the  railroad 
stations,  but  all  the  time-tables,  large  and  small,  are  printed 
in  the  old  Slavic,  as  well  as  the  modern  Roman  characters. 

Perhaps  one  reason  that  we  feel  so  very  far  from  home 
is  that  we  have  not  seen  a  newspaper  since  leaving  Ragusa. 
There  are  plenty  of  journals  lying  around  but  they  seem  to 
be  mostly  in  the  Slavic,  Turkish,  or  Hungarian  languages. 

Are  there  no  native  women  in  Ilidze,  I  wonder.  I  've 
seen  but  one  on  the  village  street.  She  passed  this  after- 
noon, dressed  in  black  full  trousers  to  ankle,  wooden  sabots, 
short  black  sleeveless  jacket  cut  low  in  front  over  a  full 
white  shirt  with  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  white  kerchief  bor- 
dered with  pale  blue  on  her  head. 

The  parcels-post  is  very  convenient  throughout  Europe, 
and  wanting  to  send  some  things  to  a  friend  near  Vienna, 
I  concluded  to  attend  to  it  myself.  Surely  a  government 
official  would  know  German,  and  possibly  English.  Slip- 
ping out  just  before  luncheon,  I  discovered  that  the  post 
office  was  closed  from  twelve  to  two;  leaving  plenty  of 
leeway,  I  sallied  forth  again  at  about  four  o'clock,  and  met 
the  post-master  on  the  door-step.  He  politely  remarked 
'^Kiiss  die  Hand'\'  and  after  unlocking  the  door,  waited 
for  me  to  precede  him  into  the  office.  He  looked  long 
and  critically  at  the  simple  address  in  Wien,  and  vainly 
searched  his  books  for  the  suburb  to  which  it  was  directed. 

"But  there  is  no  post  office  at  D ." 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  reply,  'T  am  sure  there  is,  but  it  may  be 
the  mail  is  distributed  from  the  main  office  in  Wien." 

266 


ILIDZE    TO    JAJCE    VIA    TRAVNIK 

He  finally  makes  up  his  mind  to  accept  the  parcel  on 
these  terms  and  turns  it  over. 

**But  it  is  not  sealed." 

"Oh!    Is  that  allowed?" 

**Yes,  it  is  better  so." 

''Could  you  perhaps  do  it  for  me?"   I  ask. 

"Certainly,"  and  with  the  utmost  deliberation  he  pro- 
cures a  large  stick  of  red  wax  and  a  box  of  matches  and 
proceeds  to  seal  the  parcel  at  each  end.  By  this  time  three 
people  have  come  in,  and,  while  waiting  their  turns,  watch 
with  keen  interest  these  apparently  unusual  proceedings. 

"Please  write  your  name  there,"  he  indicates  the  place 
and  watches  me  as  I  write  it.  Then  he  walks  across  the 
room  to  some  big  scales  and  back  again  for  the  weights,  to 
a  cupboard  for  the  necessary  label,  and  to  a  drawer  for  the 
receipt  book.  It  is  rather  a  relief,  —  all  this  quiet,  if  some- 
what clumsy,  business  method.  Such  a  contrast  to  our 
rushing  way  at  home ! 

Upon  settling  our  account,  he  again  says,  ^'Kiiss  die 
Hand,^^  as  he  rises,  and  the  three  waiting  suppliants  stand 
gazing  after  me  as  I  leave  the  office. 

In  the  cool  of  the  late  afternoon,  we  walk  out  the  straight 
avenue  of  chestnuts  for  about  two  miles,  to  where  the  Bosna 
gushes  from  the  rocks  in  several  separate  streams  at  the  foot 
of  Mt.  Igman.  The  government  trout-breeding  establish- 
ment here  is  extremely  interesting.  They  show  us  the  fish 
in  all  stages,  from  the  egg  to  the  big  fellows  weighing 
nearly  a  pound.  Of  course  these  sources  are  a  good  deal 
alike,  as  the  Gentle  Lady  asserts,  but  it  makes  an  excuse 

267 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

for  a  fine  tramp,  and  on  the  way  back  the  air  has  become 
so  cool  that  we  are  glad  to  take  it  rapidly. 

The  fragrance  of  the  trumpet  honeysuckle  tells  us  that 
we  are  nearing  the  park  surrounding  the  hotel ;  the  Chinese 
magnolias,  in  exquisite  mauve  tints,  stand  like  ghost  flowers 
in  fairyland,  against  the  waving  linden  branches;  the  larches 
cast  feathery  shadows  upon  the  white  pathway,  and  the 
woodbine,  our  own  Virginia  creeper,  seems  to  bring  home 
very  near  us  as  we  enter  the  wreathed  doorway. 

The  hotels  at  Gacko,  Mostar,  and  Ilidze  are  operated 
by  the  government,  and  we  discover  that  our  enthusiastic 
motorist  who  waved  to  us  so  cheerfully  on  the  way  from 
Gacko  to  Mostar  is  the  director  here.  He  is  curious  to 
know  how  we  Americans  happen  to  come  all  the  way  to 
Ilidze  by  motor,  and  begs  us  to  spread  the  knowledge  of 
this  comfortable  establishment  among  our  countrymen.  He 
overwhelms  us  with  kind  attentions,  decorates  our  car  when 
we  leave  until  it  looks  ready  for  the  Battle  of  Flowers  at 
Nice,  and  even  orders  our  luncheon  prepared  for  us  at 
Travnik,  besides  giving  us  valuable  instruction  about  the 
state  of  the  roads  throughout  Bosnia. 

Bound  for  Jajce  we  cross  the  Zujevina,  take  a  road  to 
the  right  by  the  Krisanje  inn,  and  are  soon  in  the  midst  of 
undulating  hills  green  with  forests  or  fruits  or  grain.  I  am 
unaware  that  we  are  climbing,  until  we  come  to  a  steep  de- 
scent down  which  we  go  in  four  loops  into  the  valley  of  the 
Lepenica.  Here  the  houses  are  sometimes  adobe,  some- 
times of  wood  with  long  shingles  for  the  roofs;  whitewashed 
ovens,  standing  separate  or  under  a  corner  of  the  roof,  are 

268 


THE   lletlKL   Al    ILlD/li 


A   TYPICAL   COUXlkY    AKjSQUE    XEAR    (^KoMKLJAK 
J'HE   PAIXTED    MOSQUE,    TRAVXIK. 


ILIDZE    TO    JAJCE    VIA    TRAVNIK 

a  noticeable  feature.  The  country  is  well  cultivated  and  no 
rocks  are  visible,  except,  alas!  upon  the  road;  for  Bosnian 
carts  make  such  narrow  wheel-tracks  that  one  side  or  the 
other  of  the  motor  must  be  always  on  the  sharp  stones. 

Following  the  Lepenica  River  we  cross  and  recross  it 
before  reaching  Kseljak.  Here  we  find  many  inns,  a 
Turkish  khan,  and  a  Hotel  Schwab,  which  looks  inviting; 
but  we  roll  by  without  investigating.  Soon  the  road  turns, 
becoming  smoother  and  wider,  and  crossing  the  Fojnica  at 
Gromeljak.  We  stop  to  get  a  picture  of  a  typical  country 
mosque  with  its  minaret  of  wood. 

Our  way  clings  to  the  river's  brink  with  the  snowy 
range  of  Vratnica  on  our  left.  Village  follows  village  in 
quick  succession  through  this  pleasant  region.  Jehovac, 
with  a  view  of  Mt.  Igman  behind  us,  Mt.  Vratnica  beside 
us,  and  before  us  Mt.  Vlasic,  covered  with  snow;  Breslovsko, 
with  forests  of  maples,  white  birch,  and  oak;  then  Bjelalovac, 
where  a  crowd  of  men  in  white,  with  red  turbans  and  sashes, 
lounge  in  picturesque  attitudes  before  a  Turkish  khan, 
saluting  us  as  we  pass.  There  are  wooden  posts  every 
half -kilometer  now,  although  sometimes  the  painted  figures 
have  become  obliterated.  The  fences  are  of  woven  boughs 
and  the  wandering  pig  wears  two  stakes,  twelve  inches 
long,  attached  to  a  belt,  which  prevents  him  from  getting 
into  the  fields. 

"How  do  you  suppose  that  woman  keeps  any  water  in 
those  shallow  pails?"  cries  the  Gentle  Lady,  as  we  meet 
a  trousered  female,  almost  running,  balancing  on  a  straight 
rod  across  her  shoulders,  two  brimming  buckets  of  water. 

269 


MOTORING   IN    THE    BALKANS 

As  we  cross  the  Kozica  River  the  road  is  green  with  grass. 
Women  ploughing  with  oxen  in  the  fields  here  wear  skirts 
instead  of  trousers,  and  the  men  take  off  their  fezes,  or 
turbans,  instead  of  touching  them,  in  salutation.  It  must 
be  that  we  are  in  a  Catholic  section. 

At  Busovaca  the  making  of  sun-dried  brick  seems  to  be 
an  important  industry,  and  here  we  come  again  to  the 
railroad,  which  has  taken  another  route  from  Sarajevo.  We 
cross  the  Lasva  River,  turning  to  the  left  by  a  big  lumber 
yard  and  sawmill,  into  a  narrow  valley  between  forest- 
covered  hills  with  an  occasional  projection  of  limestone  or 
sandstone  rock.  There  is  only  room  for  the  river,  the  rail- 
way, and  the  highroad  in  that  narrow  canyon;  but  soon 
the  hills  recede,  farms  and  fruit  orchards  lie  on  gentle 
slopes,  birds  are  singing,  the  temperature  is  perfect,  with 
an  overcast  sky,  and  still  before  us  towers  snowy  Vlasic. 
The  road  is  wide  and  smooth  as  we  cross  and  recross  the 
serpentine  Lasva.  Tiny  mills  are  suspended  over  tributary 
streams.  These  characteristic  Bosnian  structures  have 
been  described  as  box-like  huts  raised  high  on  piles  with 
small  solid  wheels  turning  horizontally  under  the  water.  In 
varying  stages  of  dilapidation  they  prove  a  continual  temp- 
tation to  the  camera  fiend,  each  one  seeming  more  at- 
tractive than  the  last.  We  pass  white  stucco  houses  with 
long-shingled,  pointed  roofs,  and  crosses  on  each  end  of  the 
ridge  pole,  the  poorer  houses  being  of  adobe  bricks,  or 
sometimes  of  wattles  under  plaster. 

The  rock-hewn  sides  of  Mt.  Vlasic  seem  close  to  us,  near 
Dolac.     Orioles  flash  by  us,  and,  as  we  cross  the  Lasva 

270 


A    ULTIKKFLY    Ol'    A    MAIDKN 

(tR  AVMk) 


TCJMliS    i)F     I  UK    MZIKKS,     IRAWIK 

Tin-;  ForxiAix  nv   iiif,   iomus 


ILIDZE    TO    JAJCE    VIA    TRAVNIK 

again,  we  see  in  mid-stream  a  Turkish  wagon  overflowing 
with  women  and  children,  their  bright  garments  forming  a 
veritable  poppy  bouquet.  How  the  horses  enjoy  the  cool 
water!  The  women  stare  fixedly  at  us  from  beneath  their 
silken  hoods. 

Soon  the  old  walled  castle  of  Travnik  crowning  the  hill 
comes  into  view.  According  to  tradition,  it  was  built  by 
Tvertko  II.,  Ban,  or  King,  of  Bosnia  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, and  although  the  town  has  been  burned  many  times 
in  its  change  of  masters,  the  walls  and  towers  of  the  castle 
still  stand  intact. 

Crossing  the  rushing  Lasva  and  slowly  traversing  the 
crowded  bazaar,  we  stop  at  the  farther  end  of  the  town 
before  our  hotel  door.  It  is  very  hot.  As  soon  as  we  step 
from  the  motor  we  feel  the  reflection  from  the  burning 
pavements;  but  the  Leader  says,  reproachfully:  "Didn't 
you  see  those  tombs  we  passed  just  a  little  way  down  the 
street?  We  will  just  have  time  to  look  at  them  before 
luncheon." 

The  bazaar  holds  pictures  that  I  long  to  snap,  so  we 
start  out.  It  did  not  seem  any  distance  at  all  in  the  car, 
but  plodding  along  on  foot  in  the  heat  of  noonday  gives  us 
a  very  different  standard,  and  it  seems  to  me  we  shall  never 
reach  that  painted  mosque,  which  the  guide-book  says  we 
ought  to  see. 

The  street  groups  are  worth  while.  A  gypsy  family 
squatting  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  sidewalk;  a  trio  of  country 
women  stalking  toward  the  market-place;  a  company  of 
turbaned  men  under  an  awning  around  a  table;   a  vender 

271 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

of  some  sort  with  a  huge  can  of  water  in  one  hand,  a  heavy 
basket  in  the  other,  and  on  his  head  an  oblong  tray.  One 
tiny  butterfly  of  a  maiden  I  intercept  on  her  way  home  from 
school,  to  the  grinning  delight  of  her  older  brother.  The 
bazaar  is  almost  deserted,  but  the  tables  of  piled-up  vege- 
tables and  fruits  are  charming  in  color  beneath  the  loggia 
of  the  painted  mosque.  For  this  differs  from  other  mosques 
in  having  an  arcade  around  three  of  its  sides,  and  in  this 
arcade  are  small  booths  under  sheltering  tilted  umbrellas, 
for  the  sun  seems  almost  fierce  enough  to  melt  the  nails 
and  bells  and  odd-shaped  tools,  not  to  mention  the  sweets 
and  cheeses  displayed  in  great  variety.  The  paintings  on 
the  outside  walls  of  this  mosque  are  more  attractive  caught 
in  a  flying  glimpse  from  a  motor  when  their  crude  colors  are 
somewhat  softened  by  distance. 

The  canopied  tombs  of  the  Bosnian  viziers  under  mag- 
nificent oak-trees  are  really  interesting.  Instead  of  a  turban 
in  the  usual  Mohammedan  fashion,  these  gravestones  are 
surmounted  by  a  kind  of  tall  fez  cut  in  one  piece  with  the 
column;  a  carved  slab  outlines  the  grave,  and  the  pillars 
supporting  the  stone  roof  have  simply  wrought  capitals. 
The  open  dome  is  screened  with  wire  netting  and  heavy 
iron  bars  placed  between  the  pillars  to  keep  off  marauders. 
The  inevitable  fountain  is  close  at  hand  with  constantly 
running  water.  Travnik  was  the  chief  city  of  Bosnia 
for  four  hundred  years  until  the  seat  of  government  was 
transferred  to  Sarajevo. 

"Do  you  know,  we  are  on  the  very  last  page  of  the  Bae- 
deker," says  the  Gentle  Lady,  as  after  an  excellent  luncheon 

272 


THE   ANCIENT    POPLAR,    NEAR    1  RAVNIK 
THE   BOGO^^LE   GRAVESTONE 


A    CHRISTIAX    FAMILY    (JF    BOSNIA 
A  CHRISTIAX  FARMHOUSE   IX   BOSXIA 


ILIDZE    TO    JAJCE    VIA    TRAVNIK 

we  are  preparing  for  the  afternoon  ride.  "What  are  we 
going  to  do  next?" 

''Going  through  it  backwards,  perhaps !"  — the  En- 
thusiast is  daring. 

Leaving  Travnik  by  way  of  a  charming  avenue  of  ancient 
poplars,  following  the  willow-bordered,  wandering  Lasva, 
passing  a  mossy  wayside  fountain  where  sits  a  long-haired 
dervish,  we  come  to  the  tomb  of  the  Holy  Mohammedan, 
Ismail  Baba.  However,  it  is  not  to  do  homage  to  this  good 
man  that  we  pause;  but  to  the  colossal  poplar  which,  nine 
feet  in  diameter  and  nearly  four  hundred  years  old,  lifts  its 
enormous  trunk  into  the  air,  bearing  branches  the  size  of 
ordinary  forest  trees. 

A  little  farther  along,  on  the  right-hand  side,  in  a  field 
above  us  are  four  or  five  Bogomile  stones,  much  worn  by 
the  weather,  but  very  curious.  A  whole  family  comes  out 
of  a  neighboring  house  and  stands  in  the  shade  of  their 
own  doorway  watching  us  wistfully  until  we  leave.  They 
are  certainly  Christians,  as  the  women  are  not  veiled.  Do 
they  belong  to  that  once  persecuted  sect,  the  Bogomiles? 

It  is  very  warm,  even  with  the  motion  of  the  car,  and 
we  half  envy  the  bare-legged  peasant  standing  in  midstream, 
mending  his  wattled  barrier.  There  is  plenty  to  occupy 
our  attention  in  the  road,  however,  for  no  sooner  do  we 
wait  for  a  drove  of  cattle  to  be  urged  by  than  flocks  of  sheep 
and  goats  and  even  pigs  advance  toward  us,  and  long  lines 
of  laden  horses  tied  six  or  eight  in  a  string. 

The  valley  becomes  narrower,  the  sheltered  slopes  are 
covered  with  forests,  and  both  apple  and  cherry  trees  are 

273 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

masses  of  fragrant  bloom.  Beyond  Goles  station,  the  hills 
are  lower  with  open  fields,  but  no  villages,  and  we  begin  to 
climb  over  the  Komar  Saddle.  At  the  first  long  loop  we 
face  the  other  side  of  snowy  Vlasic,  which  we  have  had  before 
us  most  of  the  day,  and  stop  for  water  at  a  house  by  the  road. 
Three  picturesque  peasants  saunter  out  through  the  open 
door,  yawning,  —  apparently  disturbed  at  their  siesta,  — 
fine  muscular  fellows,  with  keen  interest  in  the  motor  car. 
Another  one  looks  out  lazily  from  an  upper  window,  which 
is  evidently  on  a  level  with  the  floor. 

After  another  two  loops  and  a  long  ascent,  we  arrive  at 
the  top  (3090)  feet,  in  an  hour  and  four  minutes,  including 
stops.  The  distance  from  Travnik  (11 50  feet)  is  twenty- 
two  kilometers,  or  thirteen  and  three-fourths  miles.  The 
descent  to  Oborgi  is  so  steep  that  the  railroad  is  a  rack  and 
pinion  one,  but  the  grades  of  the  highway  are  well  managed 
and  the  stones  are  few,  so  that  we  coast  easily  down  to  the 
wooded  valley  of  the  Jablan.  We  are  enjoying  the  marsh 
marigolds  which  spangle  the  meadows  beyond  Oborgi, 
when  we  encounter  a  dust  storm,  which  is  so  violent  that  we 
are  forced  to  stop.  Finally  putting  on  goggles,  —  it  is  too 
hot  for  coats,  —  and  bending  our  heads,  we  move  on  through 
the  blinding  gusts. 

The  whole  countryside  is  returning  from  the  market  at 
Vakuf ,  this  pleasant  morning  in  May,  I  am  sure,  for  we  meet 
them  all;  Turks  and  Christians  of  both  sexes,  riding  and 
driving  and  leading  their  mules.  One  man,  while  conduct- 
ing his  flock  homeward,  is  busily  knitting  a  stocking.  His 
imposing  big  turban  makes  his  occupation  all  the  more  in- 

274 


ILIDZE    TO    JAJCE    VIA    TRAVNIK 

congruous.  When  we  reach  Vakuf  itself,  a  Turkish  town 
on  the  Urbas  River,  full  of  color  and  movement,  the  crowd 
is  even  greater,  and  it  is  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  we 
traverse  its  bazaar  on  our  way  through  the  village. 

Here  we  turn  north,  following  this  charming  river  in  all 
its  caprices,  at  times  between  wooded  heights,  again  widening 
with  a  swift  current,  breaking  into  cascades  near  Dogonovci 
and  reflecting  the  lofty  precipice  near  Vinac.  Are  those 
half-overgrown  ruins  faintly  to  be  seen  upon  its  summit 
the  work  of  nature  or  of  mediaeval  man?  The  kilometers 
slip  by,  the  air  gains  a  bit  of  freshness,  and  Jajce  appears, 
on  its  conical  hill  in  the  midst  of  trees  and  gardens. 

Crossing  the  Pliva  River,  with  its  array  of  quaint  old 
mills,  we  slip  through  the  narrow  gateway,  and  in  a  moment 
are  at  the  door  of  the  hotel  in  Jajce. 


a75 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

JAJCE 

T  THINK  that  was  our  hottest  and  dustiest  ride,  but  we  en- 
joyed it  notwithstanding  and  could  imagine  how  perfect  it 
would  have  been  had  the  temperature  not  been  so  unseason- 
able. After  dinner  we  were  not  too  exhausted  to  go  out  in 
the  flooding  moonlight ;  out  in  the  narrow  streets  with  over- 
hanging latticed  balconies ;  by  the  fountain  where  a  turbaned 
figure  squatted ;  through  the  mediaeval  gateway  which  looked 
strangely  stern  and  savage;  across  the  rushing  river;  down, 
down,  down  an  interminable  flight  of  dusky  time-worn  steps ; 
—  to  where,  with  deafening  roar,  the  Pliva  hurls  itself  into 
the  Urbas,  one  hundred  feet  below.  Clouds  of  spray  from 
the  thundering  torrent  blew  over  and  around  us  and  the 
tumult  was  overpowering.  But  not  content  with  this  expe- 
rience, the  Leader  went  on  down  still  more  flights  of  mossy, 
shelving  steps  —  and  we,  perforce,  must  follow  —  to  a 
point  below  the  falls.  In  the  full  glory  of  the  moon's  rays, 
that  foaming,  tossing,  tumbling  flood  plunged  over  the 
black  projecting  rocks  of  the  abyss.  It  was  indescribable. 
The  morning  light  draws  us  irresistibly  to  the  river's 
brink  again  and  to  the  clattering  mills  above  the  falls.  How 
impossible  it  seems  that  anything  so  thoroughly  picturesque 
can  really  serve  a  useful  purpose!  The  huge  wheels,  dark 
and  dank,  turn  with  a  solemn  slowness;  the  water  gushes 
from  every  loosened  paling  and  falls  in  sheets  of  foam  below 

276 


THK     riXV    MlI.l.S    (IK    JAJCE 
THF    I'l.UA    A150\K    THE    FALL 


riiK    (lAlK    i)F    JAJt'K    IRnM    oUISIUE 
THE   SAME    C.ATE    FROM     THE    IN'SIDE 


JAJCE 

the  low  foot-bridges;  and  on  the  shores  of  each  projecting 
islet,  a  tree  or  bush  extends  its  spreading  branches.  The 
smaller  streams  turn  into  bridal  veils  below  the  tiny  mills. 

A  square,  arcaded  campanile  rises  on  the  hillside,  remind- 
ing one  of  Italy.  It  looks  curiously  out  of  place  among 
these  blackened  Bosnian  roofs.  Just  within  the  gate  is  a 
group  of  Turkish  houses  surrounding  a  minaret ;  beside  the 
mosque  rises  a  Lombardy  poplar,  beneath  which  is  a  fountain 
of  running  water  and,  close  by,  an  octagonal  turret.  It 
makes  a  charming  picture.  So  does  the  little  village  of 
Kosluk  on  the  other  side  of  the  Urbas,  the  low  houses  with 
overhanging  eaves  climbing  up  the  hillside  in  a  Japanese 
effect  which  is  adorable. 

With  all  that,  the  hotel  here  is  a  great  disappointment; 
comfortable  enough,  superbly  located  on  a  cliff  above  the 
Urbas,  but  with  no  terraces,  no  balconies,  no  garden,  and 
no  view  from  the  rooms  because  the  windows  are  too  high. 
The  entire  slope  opposite  has  been  thickly  planted  with 
spruce  below  and  beech  above ;  many  paths  zig-zag  through 
its  thicket,  but  not  one  road. 

A  creamy  horse  with  curved  neck  and  waving  mane 
went  rapidly  along  the  path  one  afternoon ;  the  man  in  his 
white  homespun,  with  red  fez  and  sash,  walked  as  rapidly 
beside  him.  I  thought  of  the  fairy  stories  in  the  days  of 
my  youth,  as  the  Arab  charger  and  his  master  wound  through 
the  dappled  shadows  against  the  green  hillside. 

On  Friday  we  meet  many  Turkish  women  out  walking, 
enveloped  in  heavy  black  coats  and  thick  white  headgear, 
in  spite  of  the  melting  heat ;  but  this  is  the  only  day  in  the 

277 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

week  that  they  are  permitted  the  freedom  of  the  streets,  and 
whole  families  are  visiting  the  cemeteries  and  sauntering 
through  the  park  opposite,  some  of  them  carrying  babies 
with  big  staring  eyes. 

"Would  you  like  to  visit  a  harem?"  asks  our  guide. 
"Perhaps  the  ladies  would  find  it  interesting;  my  wife  can 
take  them  this  afternoon." 

So  about  four  o'clock  we  accompany  a  pleasant  young 
German  matron  to  a  gateway  not  half  a  block  from  the 
hotel.  Pushing  it  open,  we  go  across  a  cobblestone  court, 
up  a  few  rickety  steps  to  a  second  story  porch,  with  holes  in 
the  floor  big  enough  to  put  one's  foot  through.  Here  are 
three  or  four  green  trunks,  a  cupboard  or  two,  and  a  few 
nails  for  clothing.  From  one  side  opens  the  man's  room, 
comfortable  and  clean,  containing  a  big  stoye,  a  glass  case 
of  Turkish  books,  a  divan  a  few  inches  high  built  under  the 
window  and  covered  with  a  rug.  From  the  porch  another 
door  is  pushed  open,  and  these  are  the  women's  quarters. 
A  kitchen  first,  the  furniture  consisting  of  a  big  platform  of 
clay  with  a  brazier  of  ashes  and  a  brass  coffee-pot  on  it; 
behind  the  door  hang  tongs  and  irons,  and  the  roof  is  black- 
ened with  smoke  and  full  of  holes.  Into  the  sitting-room 
we  are  invited  by  the  hostess,  who,  dressed  in  faded  calico 
trousers  and  a  brown  shawl  which  conceals  every  vestige 
of  hair,  receives  us  pleasantly.  Only  one  blackened  tooth 
remains,  but  she  does  not  on  that  account  hesitate  to  smile. 

Taking  up  a  large  part  of  the  room,  is  a  hand-loom  for 
weaving  the  thin  white  muslin  so  common  in  the  Orient; 
besides  this,  a  porcelain  stove,  two  low  divans  covered  with 

278 


ri  RKisii   \\iiMi;\  lui    ii)i<    iiiKik  ui-.Kki.\    no  >\ii-.\  \i)i-.  j  ajii; 


JAJCE 

rugs,  and  a  corner  cupboard  holding  the  beds,  which  are 
spread  on  the  floor  at  night.  The  woman's  black  cloak  and 
white  street  head-covering  hang  on  a  hook  in  the  corner. 

A  young  woman  with  badly  scarred  cheeks  enters,  and, 
after  some  persuasion,  shows  us  her  needle  work.  "  Without 
instruction  she  makes  her  own  designs  and  stitches,  em- 
broidering handkerchiefs,  towels,  and  napkins  in  gold  thread 
and  bright  silks  for  her  trousseau,"  translates  our  guide. 
This  is  the  famous  gold-thread  work  of  the  harem  alike  on 
both  sides. 

"  How  old  is  she  ?    What  is  her  name  ?"  I  ask. 

"Vedigia.  Oh,  about  twenty.  She  does  not  know. 
They  never  know  their  age.  They  keep  no  account  —  they 
cannot  read  or  write.     She  is  a  daughter." 

Just  then  another  pale,  scrawny  woman  appears,  bare- 
footed, and  dressed  in  dreadful  calico  trousers,  but  on  her 
head  is  a  tiny  red  cap  sewn  with  gold  sequins  and  seed  pearls. 
*'She  is  a  step-daughter,"  we  are  told,  "and  that  is  her  little 
girl  who  clings  to  her  so  tightly.  Her  father,  a  priest,  has 
been  dead  six  months."  They  all  look  with  dread  at  the 
camera,  but  finger  our  embroidered  waists  and  ask  if  we  do 
it  ourselves. 

Turkish  women  comb  their  hair  but  once  a  week,  it 
being  considered  bad  for  the  hair  to  do  it  oftener!  The 
young  girl  has  had  a  dreadful  carbuncle  on  her  check,  but 
before  she  would  permit  a  man  to  look  at  it  she  would  die, — 
and  she  nearly  did.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  there  arc 
still  thousands  of  poor  women  living  in  this  dreadful  atmos- 
phere of  ignorance.     We  shiver,  as  we  come  away,  at  the 

279 


MOTORING    IN  THE    BALKANS 

hopelessness,  the  misery,  of  these  forlorn  creatures.  For 
man,  the  Moslem  religion  may  be  all  very  well,  certainly 
there  are  phases  of  it  which  are  extremely  beautiful!  But 
for  women  1 

One  evening,  strange  minor  cadences  falling  from  a 
height  called  us  to  the  window,  and,  in  the  darkness,  we 
leaned  out  to  hear  again  the  muezzin  at  nine  o'clock,  as  he 
walked  around  the  tiny  gallery  of  the  minaret  and  to  the  four 
winds  of  heaven  sent  forth  his  plea  for  prayer.  The  voice 
was  strong  and  young  and  vibrant  with  feeling.  In  the 
distance  a  deeper  tone  was  heard,  and  faintly,  still  farther 
away,  another,  before  stillness  settled  over  the  sleeping  city 
and  the  nightingales  took  up  their  ceaseless  love  songs. 

The  combination  of  radiant  moonlight  and  the  melodies 
of  nightingales  made  sleep  for  me  impossible.  Above  the 
swiftly  flowing  river,  far  below,  I  leaned  from  my  casement 
and  drank  in  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  night.  A  twitter, 
an  oft-repeated  note,  a  trill  and  another  note  in  a  higher  key, 
—  then,  when  an  answering  call  was  heard,  the  songster 
burst  forth  with  such  a  mad  revelry  of  song  it  seemed  un- 
earthly, so  wild  the  melody,  so  piercingly  sweet  the  tones! 
When  do  the  nightingales  sleep  ?  For  they  sing  all  day  and 
all  night,  above  the  rushing  river. 

Late  one  afternoon,  in  desperation  over  the  intense  heat, 
we  motored  along  the  Pliva  River,  by  its  rapids  and  green 
pools,  by  its  swamps  of  yellow  iris,  where  goldfinches  and 
magpies  flock,  to  the  lake  of  Jezero,  about  six  miles  from 
Jajce.  Here  we  stopped  at  a  Theahiitte  for  a  cup  of  tea, 
but  the  porch  overhanging  the  water  proved  so  temptingly 

280 


AT   THE    ENTRANCK    li  >    THE    1  RA.WISCAN    CHURCH 
l.\  THE   MARKET-PLACE   AFTER  THE   SERMCE.  JAJCE 


THK    HKADKI)    AM)    FMBROIDKRF.D    Ci  )A  IS    IN    JAJCK 


JAJCE 

cool,  and  the  trout  in  their  cage  moored  to  the  steps  looked 
so  delicious,  that  we  determined  to  have  our  supper  there. 
Men  in  a  native  canoe  passed,  their  red  fezes  making  a  bit 
of  color  on  the  green  water.  Gradually  the  twilight  deep- 
ened, and  through  its  shadows  we  motored  back  to  Jajce. 

That  evening  the  great  waterfall  was  to  be  illuminated 
for  us.  "I  do  not  know  whether  it  will  amount  to  anything, 
but  I  thought  we  would  try  it  —  they  seemed  so  anxious  to 
do  it,"  said  the  Leader.  So  we  walked  down  to  the  river 
level,  crossed  the  bridge,  and  up  on  the  other  side,  to  a 
pavilion  in  the  park  directly  opposite  the  cataract.  Here 
taking  possession  of  a  garden  bench,  the  only  seats,  we 
patiently  waited.  Silent  figures  by  twos  and  threes  glided 
along  the  paths  and  dropped  down  on  the  grassy  banks  out- 
side, until  we  thought  most  of  the  population  was  abroad. 
Soon  a  great  flash  of  softened  ivory  played  upon  the  foam- 
ing waterfall,  and  the  illumination  began.  It  was  really 
very  beautiful,  lasting  about  half  an  hour,  with  varying 
efifects,  not  only  on  the  dashing  water,  but  on  the  pictur- 
esque fortress  above  the  terraced  town  and  the  crowds  of 
gayly  costumed  people  who  occupied  each  vantage-point 
on  both  sides  of  the  river. 

One  day  we  climbed  to  the  old  castle  which  was  last 
captured  by  the  Turks  in  1528.  There  is  not  much  to  see 
but  ancient  walls  and  grass-grown  spaces;  however,  the 
view  is  charming  over  the  city,  river,  and  adjacent  hills. 
Here  we  caught  just  a  glimpse  of  the  shut-in  little  town  of 
factories  and  mills,  which,  in  order  to  utilize  the  valuable 
water  power  without  marring  the  beauty  of  Jajce  proper, 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

has  grown  up  behind  a  concealing  cHff  at  one  side  of  the 
city. 

Near  the  campanile  of  St.  Luke  is  the  entrance  to 
what  is  called  the  catacombs.  With  visions  of  the  Roman 
subterranean  galleries  in  mind,  I  hesitated  to  go  down  the 
steep,  dark  stairway  which  led  into  the  depths  below ;  but 
the  guide  held  up  his  blazing  torch,  the  Leader  waited  to 
follow  me,  and  I  stumbled  down  the  broken  steps,  coming 
very  soon  to  an  irregular  chamber  excavated  in  the  solid 
rock.  This  evidently  was  one  of  the  cave  churches  where 
the  early  Christians  used  to  worship,  and  which  they  used 
also  as  a  burial  place.  The  dome,  the  arches,  the  altars 
and  recesses,  as  well  as  the  sculptured  decorations,  are  done 
with  remarkable  skill.  Beneath  is  a  crypt  more  roughly 
hewn.  No  date  is  assigned  to  this  work,  but  on  one  of  the 
walls  of  the  ante-chamber  are  carved  the  arms  of  that  Hrvoja 
after  whom  the  octagonal  tower  in  the  market-place  at 
Spalato  was  named,  and  who  died  in  141 5. 

But  the  great  sight  of  Jajce  was  on  Sunday  morning, 
when  the  whole  countryside  gathered  in  the  Catholic  church, 
and  afterward  assembled  in  the  market  square.  After 
twenty-four  days  of  sunshine,  a  heavy  shower  in  the  night 
had  cooled  the  air,  and  we  felt  quite  energetic  as  we  walked 
down  the  steep  paths,  between  high  walls,  to  the  Franciscan 
church.  Alas!  we  were  not  early  enough  to  get  inside. 
The  congregation  overflowed  at  each  of  the  doors  and  fol- 
lowed the  service  devoutly,  holding  up  their  hands  with  open 
palms  at  the  Adoration,  and  at  the  Elevation  touching  the 
forehead  to  the  earth.    The  air  was  so  stifling  that  I  could 

282 


HR.WK    IN    SCARLEr    AND    COLD 
\VHH    COIN   NECKLACES   AND   HE.\D-URESSES 


A    HOS.MAX    Coll'r.K 
(jajce) 


JAJCE 

not  stay  within  six  feet  of  the  entrance,  for  it  issued  in 
great,  heated  waves  from  that  mass  of  humanity ;  but  they 
all  looked  very  clean,  and  the  white  garments  had  a  cool 
appearance,  even  if  made  of  wool. 

Inside  the  church,  the  men  unwound  their  red  turbans, 
and  flung  one  end  over  the  left  shoulder.  As  they  came 
out  into  the  sunlight,  they  made  an  effective  picture  in  all 
the  postures  of  turning  and  winding  them  around  their 
heads  again.  After  service  many  women  went  entirely 
around  the  altar  on  their  knees  repeating  a  prayer.  We 
entered  to  see  the  skeleton  of  poor  Tomase witch,  the  last 
king  of  Bosnia,  who  was  cruelly  put  to  death  by  the  Turks 
in  1493.  He  lies  in  a  glass  coffin  above  a  wooden  slab 
inscribed  with  his  name. 

Following  the  crowd  through  the  shady  streets,  we  came 
out  on  the  market-place,  and  here  I  grew  bolder  and  bolder. 
Evidently  these  good  people  had  no  objection  to  the  camera, 
for  they  posed  with  childlike  eagerness.  Some  one  near  by 
would  translate  for  me,  and  I  was  so  busy  turning  my  spool, 
I  scarcely  had  time  to  look  up  and  thank  him  before  another 
subject  still  more  beguiling  appeared. 

The  scene  was  most  diverting;  the  people  themselves 
enjoyed  the  opportunity  for  a  pleasant  chat,  the  women 
seemed  to  be  more  on  an  equahty  with  the  men,  and  cer- 
tainly they  were  openly  admired  by  them  in  many  cases. 
A  boy  selling  doughnuts  strung  on  a  stick  called  his  wares 
in  sweet,  minor  tones.  Some  girls  were  buying  shoes,  others 
were  laden  with  cotton  cloth.  There  were  Spanish  Jewesses 
wearing   the  unbecoming  cap  which  distinguishes  them; 

283 


MOTORING  IN    THE    BALKANS 

and  many  gypsies  at  their  traditional  craft  of  begging.  The 
women  were  lavishly  bedecked  with  jewelry,  necklaces, 
belt  buckles,  rings,  and  head  bands;  often  they  wore  an 
oval  silver  box  on  a  chain  around  their  necks.  In  Cyprus 
this  would  contain  a  prayer,  in  India  the  betelnut.  Both 
men  and  women  had  drawn-work  and  embroidery  on  their 
shirt  sleeves,  and  beaded  opanka  on  their  feet.  Girls  of 
the  Greek  Church  let  their  hair  hang  in  long  braids,  while 
those  of  the  Roman  wound  their  braided  tresses  about  their 
heads.  A  lady  in  black  satin  Turkish  trousers,  short,  fitted 
jacket,  and  a  close  black  cap  was  evidently  of  the  higher 
classes.  The  town  men  in  their  black  silk  trousers  trimmed 
with  dark  red,  tight  below  the  knee  and  opening  over  the 
trim  shoe;  a  sash  of  yellow  or  red;  a  blue,  short  jacket 
braided  with  red  over  the  soft  embroidered  white  shirt; 
and  wearing  the  red  fez  jauntily,  have  a  well-set-up  appear- 
ance. The  older  men  sport  wider  sashes  and  splendid 
turbans. 

'T  am  so  tired  and  so  warm  —  do  let 's  go  back  to  the 
hotel  and  rest,"  said  the  Gentle  Lady  in  pathetic  tones. 
So  "back  to  the  hotel"  we  went,  —  and  "rested"  during 
the  remainder  of  the  day. 


284 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
JAJCE   TO   BANJALUKA  — ON  TO   BOSNISCH-NOVI 

"OANJALUKA,"   repeats  the  Leader,  half  to  himself. 
"What  an  Asiatic  sound  the  word  has!" 

"Like  Bokhara,  Belgrade,  Bucharest.  They  mean  to 
me  fine  rugs  and  embroideries,  and  that  is  all." 

"Well,  to-morrow  we  go  on  to  Banjaluka.  It  is  only 
forty-eight  and  a  half  miles  and  a  famous  ride." 

It  is  cool  and  bright  when  we  leave  the  bewitching  city 
of  Jajce,  with  its  glorious  waterfall,  and  passing  under 
the  gateway  follow  the  Urbas  toward  the  north.  At  a  stone 
bench  under  a  pollarded  oak  a  short  ways  out  we  turn  back 
for  a  last  look.  From  the  lofty  castle  the  battlement  wall 
extends  down  the  hillside,  enclosing  the  low-roofed  houses, 
the  minarets,  and  the  big  white  Franciscan  church  and 
monastery,  in  the  midst  of  trees  and  gardens,  just  above  the 
narrow,  rushing  river. 

The  road  is  in  excellent  condition  without  any  dust  and 
shaded  by  cherry  and  walnut  trees,  blossoming  locusts  and 
the  white  hawthorn.  After  crossing  the  river  the  clitTs 
of  creamy  stone  draw  nearer  and  nearer,  the  spangled  fields 
disappear,  and  we  enter  the  gorge.  The  genista  hangs  its 
yellow  flowers  over  the  brown-streaked  rocks,  the  mountain 
ash  is  in  its  native  haunt,  and  beyond  a  magnificent  beech- 
tree  we  stop  to  light  the  lanterns,  for  an  iron  bridge  leads 
into  a  curving  tunnel.     Two  faint  specks  appear  in  the  dis- 

28s 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

tance,  marking  the  centre  of  the  curve.    We  are  very  glad 
not  to  meet  anything  in  that  reverberating  darkness. 

As  we  emerge  a  man  hastily  takes  off  his  coat  and 
covers  his  horse's  head  to  keep  it  from  seeing  us.  The 
comers  are  sharp  and  we  blow  the  horn  in  warning,  going 
cautiously.  Many  water  troughs  are  placed  along  the  route 
for  the  refreshment  of  man  and  beast. 

The  precipices  now  are  so  sheer  that  the  road  enters  this 
second  gorge  through  a  short  tunnel,  and  on  our  left  a  tiny 
mill  is  placed  over  a  small  cascade  which  tumbles  into  the 
rapids  of  the  Urbas.  Here  huge  beeches  and  locusts,  lindens 
and  maples,  willows  and  the  fragrant  walnuts,  cover  the 
cliffs  below  the  rocky  heights  and  fill  each  bit  of  earth 
beside  the  stream.  The  elder  is  in  blossom,  and  masses  of 
wild  flowers,  yellow,  purple,  and  white,  carpet  the  ground 
under  the  big  trees. 

The  Ugar  River  joins  us  on  the  right  and,  beyond  the 
road  leading  to  Omarsko  on  our  left,  there  is  a  striking 
view  of  great  gray  crags  rising  sheer  and  seeming  to  close 
the  way.  Slipping  around  the  over-lapping  points  we 
see  on  the  height  the  huge  ruined  castle  of  Bocae  and 
beside  us  the  inn,  —  the  half-way  house,  where  the  diligence 
from  Banjaluka  to  Jajce  daily  halts  for  three-quarters 
of  an  hour. 

Gradually  the  cliffs  become  lower  and  the  open  country 
smiles  upon  us,  the  green  fields  and  scattered  farms  of 
Aginoselo.  Then  another  mountain  wall  looms  ahead  and 
we  plunge  in,  still  following  the  way  made  by  the  rushing 
Urbas.    Close  to  its  rocky  bed  we  keep,  for  there  is  no 

286 


-y^lw 


'M, 


-A  •• 


J 


.k& 


'IIRRlSll    CniLDKllS 

(jAjcr.) 


JAJCE    TO    BANJALUKA 

other  space.  Walnuts  and  lindens  shade  us  from  the  sun, 
clematis  twines  and  spreads  over  low  bushes,  many  birds  are 
seen  and  heard,  and  above  us  are  ever  the  towering  crags. 
We  meet  peasants  walking,  dressed  in  attractive  creamy 
wool,  bound  with  leathern  belts  studded  with  coins.  They 
are  driving  horses  for  whom  we  wait  until  they  make  up 
their  minds  to  pass  us  quietly. 

Suddenly  on  the  height  appears  an  old  watch-tower, 
another  and  a  third,  completing  the  ruins  of  Krupa's  castle, 
which  on  the  other  side  of  the  cliff  resolves  itself  into  a  pic- 
turesque whole.  They  say  there  is  an  inn  at  Krupa,  but 
we  did  not  see  any  likely  place  to  stop. 

At  the  end  of  a  broad  valley,  another  old  castle,  with 
vine-draped  walls,  the  Zwecaj-Grad,  guards  the  entrance 
to  the  wildest  part  we  have  yet  seen,  —  the  Tjesno  Gorge. 
The  mountain  walls  approach  so  closely  that  the  road  is 
blasted  from  the  overhanging  rock,  a  huge  cave  on  our  right 
echoes  with  our  rumbling  progress,  and  it  is  with  a  feeling 
of  relief  —  to  me  at  least  —  that  we  emerge  from  these 
depths  and  cross  the  Urbas  into  Jagare  and  Karanovac.  A 
woman,  with  peacock  feathers  in  her  cap,  looks  at  us  curi- 
ously from  the  bazaar.  We  re-cross  the  river  and  soon  after 
enter  the  uninteresting,  long,  straggling  street  of  Banjaluka 
and  turn  in  at  the  hotel  entrance. 

Imagine  horse  chestnuts  planted  so  closely  together  that 
not  a  ray  of  sunlight  can  penetrate,  clipped  high  enough  to 
permit  people  to  walk  about  comfortably  underneath  them; 
imagine  these  trees  in  blossom  and  the  birds  singing;  im- 
agine   small  tables  set   with   clean   linen    in   the  grateful 

287 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

shade;  imagine  delicious  trout,  fresh  asparagus,—  and  a  cool 
breeze  with  the  coffee  1  That  is  what  awaits  us  in  Banja- 
luka.    What  a  joy  to  again  take  our  meals  out  of  doors! 

Do  we  miss  the  view  of  the  roaring  river  Urbas  ?  Not  at 
all.  New  costumes  on  the  women  claim  our  attention; 
queer  country  carriages  —  Heaven  save  the  mark !  —  go 
rattling  by;  and  an  orange  vender  wanders  in,  a  flat  basket 
on  either  arm.  Might  I  kodak  him?  He  almost  blushes 
with  delight.  He  is  n't  exactly  handsome,  and  shows  his 
blackened  teeth  in  as  foolish  a  grin  as  any  maiden  of  sixteen 
could  furnish.  Mysteriously  enough  there  are  no  flies  or 
disturbing  insects  —  at  least  in  sight. 

Banjaluka  is  in  a  flat  plain,  the  streets  are  broad,  and 
the  sidewalks  are  beautifully  shaded  with  locusts  and  chest- 
nuts now  in  full  blossom.  They  are  kept  sprinkled,  and  it 
is  a  delight  to  walk  in  the  cool  arch  of  greenness. 

''I  never  heard  of  a  fort  here,  but  there  at  the  end  of 
that  side  street  is  something  that  looks  like  an  old  wall. 
Would  n't  you  like  to  go  down  that  way?" 

Half  reluctantly  we  leave  our  cool  shade  to  walk  even  for 
a  short  distance  in  this  white  glare  of  sunlight,  but  as  we 
turn  a  corner  against  the  green  trees  in  a  gap  of  the  ancient 
fortifications,  we  behold  a  moving  mass  of  red  fezes.  What 
can  it  be?  We  go  nearer  and  discover  hundreds  of  young 
peasants  in  their  holiday  attire,  gay  with  embroidery  and 
overlapping  coins,  before  the  entrance  to  the  barracks.  It 
is  a  brilHant  scene,  —  evidently  a  conscription.  As  they 
stand  in  groups,  or  play  a  game  of  ball,  or  lounge  upon  the 
sward  under  the  big  trees,  the  play  of  light  and  shade  is 

288 


lUF.    COXSCRIPTIOX    AT    HA.XJALIKA 


JAJCE    TO    BANJALUKA 

wonderful.  Only  two  women  are  to  be  seen,  and  those  are 
both  old.  This  experience  does  much  to  redeem  the  little 
town  in  our  eyes.  "For  it  must  be  confessed  the  name  is 
much  more  Oriental  than  the  place,"  remarks  the  Enthusi- 
ast at  dinner  that  evening. 

"There  is  no  view,  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen.  There 
is  only  comfort  and  coolness  and  the  fragrance  of  flower- 
ing trees." 

"We  are  spoiled  perhaps,"  answers  the  Gentle  Lady. 

"If  we  had  come  here  first  before  seeing  Mostar  or  Jajce, 
or  even  Sarajevo,  doubtless  we  should  appreciate  it  more." 
For  Banjaluka  is  distinctly  ambitious  and  bears  an  aggrava- 
ting air  of  prosperity.  One  has  to  hunt  for  the  fast  depart- 
ing bits  of  its  old  regime.  Its  younger  inhabitants  are 
adopting  the  hideous  clothes  of  civilization,  and  the  blocks 
of  new  buildings  are  a  sore  trial  to  the  lover  of  the  pictur- 
esque. However,  the  country  people,  —  Heaven  bless 
them!  —  with  their  fringed  trousers  and  sheepskin  coats, 
their  gay  sashes  and  embroidered  waistcoats,  are  still  to  be 
seen  in  abundance,  bringing  their  produce  into  the  city  in 
quaint  wagons  of  woven  basket-work. 

At  Banjaluka  no  nightingales  above  a  rushing  river  keep 
us  from  sleep.  But  another  and  different  sound  awakens  us 
in  the  morning,  for  the  workmen  here  have  no  foolish  preju- 
dices about  beginning  their  labors  at  seven  o'clock.  If  a 
fence  needs  repairing,  whether  under  one's  window  or  out 
in  the  open,  by  six  o'clock  the  man  is  hammering  nails  with 
a  vigor  and  vim  worthy  of  a  later  hour.  However,  we  mean 
to  get  an   early  start   to-day,  as  we  are   not  sure  of  the 

289 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

conditions  on  these  northern  Bosnian  roads.  Indeed,  the 
route  we  are  to  take  as  far  as  Prjedor  is  not  marked 
upon  our  map. 

It  is  market-day  also  at  Banjaluka,  and  as  we  start  out 
we  become  thoroughly  convinced  of  this,  for  the  way  is 
lined  with  groups  of  men  and  women  coming  toward  us. 
Again  the  costumes  differ  from  any  that  we  have  yet  seen,  a 
long  white  tunic  embroidered  on  the  front  and  sleeves,  belted 
with  a  wide  piece  of  bead  work,  and  finished  with  a  deep- 
fringed  bead  bag  hanging  across  the  back.  The  hair  is 
parted  in  the  middle  and  smoothed  down  behind  the  ears 
under  a  white  close  cap,  worn  on  the  back  of  the  head  and 
trimmed  with  a  strip  of  cross-stitch  embroidery.  Some 
have  deep  borders  of  red  on  their  head-kerchiefs  and  a 
few  have  dark  blue  aprons,  but  both  men  and  women 
look  immaculately  clean,  and  the  women's  figures  are 
trim  and  slender  in  contrast  to  the  heavier  outlines  of  the 
Jajce  peasants. 

At  a  near  cross-roads  we  turn  to  the  left,  for  the  post 
reads  plainly  "to  Prjedor,"  and  underneath  locusts  and  haw- 
thorn, with  an  occasional  white  birch,  we  speed  over  the 
rolling  hills.  Charming  views  of  grain  fields  surrounded  by 
wattled  fences  alternate  with  copses  and  the  whole  is  en- 
veloped in  a  thin  blue  haze.  The  meandering  road  is  smooth 
and  the  friendly  landscape  restful  after  the  mountain  scenery 
of  yesterday.  The  sun  is  hot,  but  the  air  delicious.  Under 
a  grove  of  weeping  birches  in  a  damp  hollow,  finely  cut 
ferns  are  growing  in  profusion.  Farmhouses,  with  thatched 
out-buildings,  are  scattered  along  the  roadside. 

290 


riir    i>RANT,r    \F.\1)ER,    UANivi.  k\ 


A   SHEEI'SKIX    (O.Vr,    IJAXJALlkA 


JAJCE    TO    BANJALUKA 

"What  a  nice  little  country  road!"  comments  the  Gentle 
Lady,  "so  much  more  comfortable  than  the  dusty  highway." 

"Have  you  noticed,  we  have  n't  seen  a  single  Turkish 
house  since  leaving  Banjaluka?"  asks  the  Enthusiast. 

"This  must  be  a  Catholic  section,  I  suppose,"  answers 
the  Gentle  Lady. 

The  many  culverts  remind  us  of  our  roads  at  home ;  we 
look  at  them  askance ;  they  seem  so  insecure ;  but  although 
the  boards  often  squeak  and  rattle,  we  always  cross  in 
safety.  A  woman's  bright  yellow  head-kerchief  reflects  the 
sunlight  as  she  guides  a  horse  and  harrow  across  a  distant 
field ;  larks  are  singing  and  a  hawk  soaring  overhead ;  mag- 
pies flash  by  us;  and  we  cross  the  railroad  again,  near  the 
station  for  Ivanjska. 

The  grades  over  the  Kukovica  Saddle  are  rather  steep, 
but  short,  and  the  whole  effect  of  the  countryside  resembles 
Wisconsin  more  than  any  region  we  have  seen  for  a  long 
time.  To  be  sure,  we  miss  the  countless  lakes,  but  the  many 
small  streams  keep  the  landscape  green.  A  big  Catholic 
church  in  a  grove  of  trees  with  no  houses  near,  but  sur- 
rounded by  sheds  and  booths  with  wooden  tables  and  benches 
seems  to  indicate  a  centre  for  a  number  of  scattered  hamlets. 
Men  are  busy  ploughing  the  fields  with  oxen  and  horses;  the 
houses  look  well  kept,  the  people  prosperous;  we  see  in  the 
barnyards  sheep,  horses  and  cattle,  goats,  turkeys,  chickens, 
ducks  and  geese;  —  and  at  a  sharp  bend  in  the  road  we 
confront  a  big  black  buffalo  and  her  calf! 

A  road  to  the  left  leads  to  Omarsko,  and  we  pass  Cikalo- 
vac,  where  the  cherries  are  green  on  the  young  trees  and  the 

291 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

wild  roses  are  in  bloom.  How  graceful  the  outlines  of  the 
locust  branches  heavy  with  their  fragrant  white  tassels! 
A  minaret  rises  above  the  treetops;  latticed  houses  hide  in 
high-walled  enclosures ;  henna-stained  children  appear ;  — 
it  is  Kozorac. 

How  incongruous  the  large  Catholic  church  at  one  end  of 
this  rambling  Turkish  village !  We  meet  several  companies 
of  the  awkward  buffaloes,  but  strangely  enough  they  are 
not  afraid  of  the  automobile.  The  road  is  rougher,  dustier, 
and  more  used  than  before  we  reached  Kozorac.  Young 
orchards  extend  on  either  side  of  us  and  men  in  European 
dress  are  inspecting  them.  The  workmen,  too,  are  in  the 
garb  of  civilization.  We  hear  something  about  "German 
colonists"  from  the  front  seat.  Great  fields  of  headed 
wheat  bend  in  the  southern  breeze. 

A  man  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road  waves  his  hand- 
kerchief frantically.  We  stop  and  the  Leader  gets  out  to 
investigate.  A  small  bridge  is  down  and  we  must  ford  the 
stream.  Preferring  to  walk  across,  we  dismount,  and  while 
laborers  arrange  planks  on  the  stones  for  us,  they  prepare 
a  comparatively  safe  crossing  for  the  automobile.  Down  the 
steep  cutting,  and  into  the  soft  mud,  plunging  on  to  the 
planks  in  the  swift  running  water,  and  safely  up  the  other 
side  goes  our  skilful  chauffeur  with  the  car.  I  really  believe 
that  car  could  climb  the  steps  of  the  Capitol  if  it  were 
necessary ! 

"Did  you  notice  those  men  had  checked  turbans?"  asks 
the  Enthusiast,  as  we  are  going  merrily  on  again.  "They 
looked  as  if  they  were  a  kind  of  gingham." 

292 


)Kill    HOSMAX    COSTIMI:,    NKAK    HAN.IAl, 


rilK    CAI"    I\     Ifll';    HACK 
rilK   CAI'    I\    THE    FRONT 


JAJCE   TO    BANJALUKA 

"No,  I  did  n't  notice,"  confesses  the  Gentle  Lady;  "I 
was  looking  at  the  automobile." 

At  Prjedor  we  come  to  the  railroad  again  and  cross- 
ing it,  traverse  the  rambling  town  with  its  church  and  three 
mosques,  its  Turkish  houses,  and  a  very  good-looking  hotel. 
The  road  twists  across  the  plain,  following  the  Sana  River. 
Grape  vines  arc  trained  on  lattices  to  the  second  story  of  the 
houses;  viburnam  alnifolium  blossoms  in  the  hedges,  un- 
doubtedly wild;  and  just  beyond  Brezicani  we  cross  the 
railroad  again.  Meeting  a  team,  the  frightened  peasants 
halloo  for  us  to  stop,  carefully  unharness  the  horses  and  lead 
them  into  an  adjacent  field  where  they  stand  patiently  wait- 
ing for  us  to  go  on ;  but  the  road  is  so  narrow  with  ditches 
on  either  side  that  the  abandoned  cart  completely  fills  it. 
They  soon  recognize  the  situation,  however,  return,  and 
back  away  the  cart. 

"Any  more  motors  coming?"  they  frantically  ask,  evi- 
dently thinking  we  are  the  advance  guard  for  the  Austrian 
Automobile  Club.  We  reassure  them  while  the  horses  never 
move  an  ear,  but  watch  us  calmly  from  the  field. 

Crossing  the  railroad  again  near  Dragotinja,  we  get  an 
exhilarating  spin  over  a  good  bit  of  road.  The  sun  is  grow- 
ing hot;  there  is  not  a  cloud  in  sight.  Green  hillsides  and 
low  forests  are  on  our  right,  and  beside  us  the  shallow  Sana. 
Our  way  is  like  an  English  lane;  through  fields  of  yellow 
iris  and  buttercups,  alternating  with  grain.  The  houses  arc 
arranged  with  the  stable  below  and  an  overhanging  second 
story  for  the  family. 

Huge  log  rafts  on  the  river  are  very  picturesque;    men 

293 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

stand  in  front  with  oars,  and  one  at  the  back  steers  as  the 
swift  current  carries  them  on;  occasionally  a  canopy  of 
branches  is  arranged  somewhere  amidship  for  a  passenger. 
At  Bosnisch-Novi  we  cross  the  Sana,  which  here  flows  into 
the  Una,  and  dismount  at  the  clean  little  hotel  for  luncheon. 


294 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

LEAVING   BOSNIA  — PLITVICA   LAKES 

r>OSNISCH-NOVI  is  close  to  the  frontier  of  Croatia, 
and  a  road  leads  from  there  almost  directly  north  to 
Agram;  but  we  are  bound  for  the  Plitvica  Lakes  first,  so 
we  make  inquiries  about  getting  to  Bihac  for  the  night. 

"Why,  certainly,  the  road  is  good,  a  motor-diligence  goes 
every  day  up  the  Una  valley  via  Krupa." 

That  sounds  most  encouraging.  We  decide  to  follow 
this  road. 

Generally  there  is  an  old  and  beautiful  tree  in  the  court- 
yard of  a  mosque.  It  may  be  a  tall  cypress,  a  spreading 
sycamore  or  linden,  a  huge  oak  or  a  graceful  palm,  accord- 
ing to  the  climate;  but  it  is  always  tenderly  nurtured  and 
well  repays  its  care-takers  with  cool  shade  and  dappling 
shadows  against  the  fountain  walls.  Over  the  mosque  at 
Novi  two  great  lindens  lift  their  towering  branches,  —  but 
our  admiration  is  cut  short  by  a  fearful  noise  and  rolling 
clouds  of  dust.  The  natives  do  not  seem  astonished  or  per- 
turbed,—  it  is  nothing  but  the  daily  diligence,  —  "a  motor- 
dihgence,"  they  proudly  add,  as  slowly  it  comes  groaning 
and  puffing  along  the  highway. 

Knowing  well  that  this  huge  broad-tired  affair,  which  is 
a  cross  between  a  Black  Maria  and  a  steam  roller,  could 
traverse  the  rocky  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent  without  much 
discomfort  to  the  occupants,  we  do  not  feel  that  its  presence 

295 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

necessarily  guarantees  good  roads;  but  we  set  out  merrily  to 
try  our  fate. 

The  green  valley  of  the  broad  Una  River  is  almost  un- 
bearably hot,  and  as  we  progress  the  ruts  grow  deeper  and 
the  stones  more  numerous;  but  the  kilometer  posts  are  well 
kept  up  and  plainly  marked.  Wooded  hillsides  rise  on  our 
left,  the  Una's  rapids  on  our  right;  and  a  succession  of 
wagons  and  carriages  pass  us.  We  feel  we  are  leaving  the 
Orient  when  the  ugly  slouch  or  straw  hat  appears  on  men's 
heads. 

At  the  Turkish  village  of  Otoka  we  stop  on  the  bridge  to 
kodak  a  mill;  and  just  beyond  the  railroad  to  Cozin  en- 
counter a  covered  wagon  carrying  many  men,  the  back  care- 
fully curtained  off  for  the  women.  At  sight  of  the  auto- 
mobile the  men  leap  to  the  ground;  but  the  poor  women 
only  crouch  down  together  until  the  shying  horses  are  quiet. 
I  suppose  if  the  cart  tipped  over  they  would  make  no  move 
but  go  unprotestingly  into  the  ditch ;  —  it  would  be  Kismet ! 

Beyond  Podvran,  Krupa  and  its  castle  come  into  sight. 
We  cross  the  Una  again,  turning  sharply  to  the  right  in  an 
attempt  to  follow  its  serpentine  course,  and  are  relieved  to 
pass  the  up-going  motor  diligence,  which  is  waiting  here.  In 
the  shut-in  valley,  where  the  green  slopes  overlap,  the  heat 
is  intense,  the  route  stony  and  rough.  The  peasants  carry 
red  and  blue  umbrellas  to  keep  off  the  sun's  rays,  as  they 
march  stolidly  along.  The  wooded  hillsides  grow  into  gray 
crags,  steep  and  high;  the  river  keeps  close  to  us  all  the  way. 

The  route  from  Krupa  to  Bihac,  recently  ''improved" 
in  order  to  avoid  the  long  climb  over  the  Drenovo  Pass,  lies 

296 


K  i 


r. 


.Jr^^ 


m:^ 


-"/'T- 
>^'/^ 

•^2^^^^ 


LEAVING    BOSNIA 

through  a  beautiful  gorge,  where  the  deep  green  river  quietly 
pursues  its  course  between  masses  of  rock  and  great  forests. 
Strange  new  wild  flowers,  pink  and  white  and  yellow, 
carpet  the  cool  shade;  but  the  road-bed,  —  the  road-bed  is 
enough  to  make  a  mere  motorist  weep!  Gradually  the 
cliffs  step  back,  but  still  the  palisades  rise  on  either  side. 
At  the  gateway  the  precipitous  heights  are  imposing;  then 
the  river  broadens,  and  a  curious  mud  deposit  forms  small 
islands  in  its  midst. 

On  a  crag  across  the  Una,  connected  with  the  highway 
by  a  gate-house  and  a  bridge,  rises  a  large  building  like  a 
French  chateau,  with  mansard-roof  and  pointed  towers 
in  an  enormous  walled  enclosure.  Strangely  out  of  place 
it  looks  in  this  wilderness,  and  I  long  to  know  its  history. 

''Probably  it  is  a  restoration,"  asserts  the  Leader. 
''There  may  be  a  village  near,  for  I  can  see  the  top  of  a 
minaret  on  a  height  beyond.     Is  it  Brekozica?" 

At  Pokoj  we  leave  our  hill-enclosed  valley  and  take  a 
straight  road  across  the  plain  to  Bihac.  On  our  left  the 
ruined  castle  of  Sokolac  crowns  an  eminence  and  the  Pljese- 
vica  Mountains  bound  the  horizon. 

The  hotel  at  Bihac  is  very  plain,  but  clean,  and  the  food 
good.  What  could  one  ask  for  better  than  brook  trout,  fresh 
vegetables,  and  delicious  cake  ?  My  room,  a  front  one,  and 
double,  with  two  windows,  is  marked  fifty-eight  cents  a  day. 
To  be  sure  it  has  no  carpet,  rug,  or  even  a  piece  of  oilcloth 
on  the  floor,  but  the  boards  are  scrubbed  and  the  linen 
spotless.  We  take  a  walk  in  the  twilight  under  the  avenues 
of  blossoming  chestnuts  to  the  old  Mohammedan  cemetery, 

297 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

where  the  tombstones,  all  neatly  straightened  and  white- 
washed, give  an  individuality  to  the  charming,  shady  park. 
The  air  is  delightfully  cool,  filled  with  the  fragrance  of  the 
white  locust.  A  nightingale,  in  a  tree  above  our  heads, 
sings  his  whole  repertoire  in  delicious  abandon. 

Bihac  is  yet  quite  unaccustomed  to  the  tourist,  the  men 
touch  their  fezes  as  the  stranger  walks  by  and  the  little 
girls  pass  with  the  pretty  salute,  '^  Kiiss  die  Handy  Three 
small  victorias  go  by  the  hotel.  In  the  first  ride  two  men, 
the  older  with  a  turban,  the  younger  wearing  a  fez.  The 
two  following  carriages  have  white  lace  curtains  drawn 
tightly  before  the  hood ;  on  the  tiny  front  seats  are  two  chil- 
dren, but  crouched  in  the  back  sit  the  women. 

From  a  closely  latticed  house,  in  a  court  opposite  my 
window,  emerges  a  young  Turkish  gentlemen,  dressed  in 
pale  gray  clothes,  after  the  English  fashion.  His  fez  be- 
trays him,  however,  and  as  he  saunters  into  the  street  he 
nearly  runs  against  a  cow  that  turns  in  at  the  same  gate 
and  calmly  enters  the  same  narrow  door  of  the  house  through 
which  he  has  just  come. 

The  country  carts  go  rattling  merrily  by  my  window 
before  five  o'clock.  Why  do  they  need  bells  to  add  to  their 
already  deafening  din  ?  No  wonder  we  toot  the  small  horn 
and  the  big  horn  and  the  siren  in  vain,  —  only  the  sharp, 
keen  whistle  of  the  chauffeur  finally  penetrates  through 
that  racket. 

Bihac,  our  last  Bosnian  town,  is  at  the  base  of  the  Pljese- 
vica  Mountains,  up  which  in  the  early  morning  we  begin  our 
gradual  ascent.     Herds  of  cattle  are  feeding  in  the  grassy 


LEAVING    BOSNIA 

meadows  of  this  green  valley;  catalpas  and  flowering  locusts 
line  the  way.  Descending  to  cross  a  shallow  brook,  we 
climb  again  into  a  higher,  but  still  cultivated  plain,  where 
men  are  ploughing;  then  turn  through  wooded  hills,  with 
wonderful  views  in  the  clear  atmosphere  of  the  heights.  The 
air  grows  cool  as  we  reach  the  old  fortress  of  Zegar,  where 
a  new  building  is  filled  with  soldiers;  and  in  a  few  moments 
we  come  into  Zavalje,  the  first  Croatian  village. 

We  notice  already  the  change  in  costume.  The  women 
wear  dark  skirts  with  black  velvet  sleeveless  jackets,  some- 
times embroidered  with  gilt,  over  full  white  blouses;  and 
yellow  head-kerchiefs,  the  brighter  the  better. 

''Are  we  going  to  climb  those  mountains?"  asks  the 
chauffeur,  nonchalantly,  pointing  to  the  great  peaks  rising 
beside  us. 

''Yes,"  replies  the  Leader,  "but  at  a  point  lower 
down." 

We  are  on  the  east  side  of  the  plateau  of  the  Pljesevica, 
among  barren,  rocky  moors,  affording  but  scanty  pasture  to 
the  many  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats.  The  peasants  tending 
them  smile  upon  us  and  touch  their  red  Croatian  caps  in 
courteous  greeting. 

Past  Baljevac  we  fly,  merely  noting  that  it  is  a  typical 
mountain  village  of  log  houses,  sometimes  whitewashed, 
with  long  shingled  roofs,  and  only  toothed,  slanting  boards 
standing  in  a  blackened  hole  in  lieu  of  chimneys. 

Turning  a  corner  in  the  stony  road,  we  come  upon  a 
pretty  scene.  A  half-dozen  men  and  women  in  a  circle  are 
holding  a  huge  white  cloth;   in  the  centre  a  woman  with  a 

299 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

sieve  is  kneeling;  an  old  dame  looks  on  gayly  smiling,  with 
a  young  child  grabbed  tightly  in  either  arm. 

''They  must  be  winnowing  corn,"  says  the  Leader. 

"What  color  and  movement!"  cries  the  Enthusiast. 

Other  women  are  carrying  odd-shaped  pails  of  water 
from  the  village  fountain;  lengths  of  homespun  are  spread 
on  walled  fences  to  bleach. 

At  Petrovoselo  we  turn  south  by  a  post  marked  "U 
Priboj,"  and  the  road  improves  as  we  ascend;  that  is,  there 
are  fewer  stones  and  no  deep  ruts.  The  prevalent  dress  of 
the  men  seems  to  be  white  tunic  and  trousers,  blue  sleeve- 
less coat,  and  red  cap.  We  miss  the  twisted,  brilliant  sashes 
of  Bosnia,  for  here  the  men  wear  no  belts. 

Near  the  top  of  the  pass  we  stop  to  cool  the  engine.  Birds 
are  singing  in  the  stunted  growth  of  alders  and  larches; 
among  the  boulders  a  cuckoo  calls.  Men  and  women  are 
shearing  sheep  in  a  most  primitive  fashion;  holding  the 
struggling  animal  down  with  the  knee  and  one  hand,  they 
clip  great  tufts  of  wool  with  the  other. 

Priboj  itself  is  twenty-two  hundred  feet  above  the  sea, 
a  rambling  collection  of  houses,  a  post  ofhce,  and  a  wayside 
fountain. 

"Now  we  have  twenty-five  miles  to  go,"  says  the  Leader. 
And  leaving  the  highroad  down  to  Gospic,  we  turn  to  the 
right,  going  due  west;  and  at  the  cross-roads  still  keep  to 
the  right,  getting  a  pleasant  view  of  brown  ploughed  fields 
and  of  waving  grain.  Farmhouses  are  sprinkled  along 
the  way,  and  a  large  Catholic  cemetery  is  beautifully  placed 
at  the  edge  of  the  forest.     The  bushes  over  the  slopes  have 

300 


0.\E   OF    JHE    PLirViCA    FALLS 


LEAVING    BOSNIA 

a  curiously  clipped  appearance  up  to  a  certain  height.  Are 
they  eaten  by  animals,  or  cut  for  firewood  ? 

As  we  near  our  destination  the  road  becomes  a  boule- 
vard for  smoothness,  winding  down  through  magnificent 
birch  woods,  while  between  the  dancing  leaves  gleam  and 
glisten  the  peacock-blue  water  and  foaming  cascades  of 
the  Plitvica  Lakes. 

I  catch  my  breath  in  rapture!  If  these  exquisite  pools 
were  anywhere  else  but  hidden  away  in  the  mountains  of 
far  Croatia  they  would  have  a  world-wide  reputation.  The 
nearest  point  upon  the  railroad  is  Ogulin,  more  than  forty 
miles  away;  and  Ogulin  is  seventy-one  miles  from  Agram. 
Here  in  the  midst  of  a  dense  forest  of  birches,  two  thousand 
feet  above  sea  level,  surrounded  by  green  mountains,  are 
nineteen  exquisite  lakes  of  varying  shapes,  sizes,  and  levels 
connected  by  falls  and  cascades,  each  one  of  a  different  hue ! 
Nothing  has  been  done  to  spoil  the  wilderness,  but  conve- 
nient paths  encircle  the  clear  basins  and  rise  to  points  of 
vantage  upon  the  higher  hills.  It  is  a  bird's  Paradise,  too, 
and  the  air  resounds  with  their  happy  songs. 

The  flora  is  wonderfully  varied.  Here  seems  to  be  the 
home  of  our  cultivated  perennials;  columbines  of  a  marvel- 
lous hue;  centaurea,  not  only  the  bachelor's  button,  but  the 
fringed  ones  with  the  dark  red  centres;  lilies  of  the  valley; 
dandelions  more  like  asters;  violets,  of  course,  and  lupines 
in  many  shades ;  a  fine  yellow  brassica  and  blue  lobelia ;  al- 
lium Neapolitanum  and  baneberrics;  anemones  of  astonish- 
ing size  and  vigor;  marsh  marigolds  and  vipers  bugloss; 
pink  starry  campion;   rose-colored  mint,  something  like  our 

301 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

self-heal,  but  with  flowers  nearly  an  inch  long;  the  gay 
yellow  tufts  of  the  anthyllis  and  the  bird's-foot  trefoil, 
or  lotus  corniadatus;  the  gorgeous  sulphur-colored  cheiran- 
thus;  our  own  pink  ragged-robin;  the  effective  rosy  flowers 
of  the  polygonum  bistorta,  which  has  fourteen  English 
names  —  perhaps  Patient  Dock  is  the  most  pleasing;  the 
majantheum  bijolium,  or  two-leaved  lily  of  the  valley,  ex- 
actly like  our  Canada  May-flower;  the  plantago  media, 
with  its  spike  of  bright  pink  petals.  Think  of  a  plantain 
being  desirable!  Unlike  our  dufl,  beady  blossoms,  this 
variety  is  a  joy  to  behold.  Here  is  a  thrifty  blue-branching 
campanula;  an  ethereal  morning-glory  with  fine-cut  silvery 
leaves;  a  rich  blue  salvia;  a  splendid  violet  vetch;  the 
curious  yellow  bells  of  the  cerinthe  major,  or  wax  plant ;  the 
fragrant  three-flowered  laburnum,  or  cytisus  trifloms;  pink 
meadow  rue  and  orchids;  —  the  yellow  lady's-slipper  in 
abundance,  the  showy  orchids  and  the  delicate  green  haben- 
aria  orbiculata,  an  odd  little  nodding  flower  rising  from  its 
whorl  of  leaves  like  the  pogonia  verticillata,  the  dainty 
white  cephalanthera,  the  wonderful  pink  military  orchis, 
and,  queerest  of  afl,  the  insect-like  ophrys  family,  —  the 
spider-shaped,  the  bee-shaped,  the  fly-shaped.  They  are 
most  appropriately  named. 

Many  are  the  hours  I  spend  hunting  new  species;  every 
inch  of  forest  turf  seems  to  hold  a  secret  and  invite  explora- 
tion. One  morning,  as  we  sit  above  the  Lake  of  Galovac, 
birch-trees  framing  deep  pictures  of  the  falls,  and  at  our 
feet  strange  wild  flowers  in  such  abundance  and  variety  that 
I  despair  of  ever  learning  their  names,  I  ask,  — 

302 


LEAVING    BOSNIA 

"What  do  you  see  in  this  small  bit  of  earth,  say  four 
feet  square?" 

Lowering  his  eyes  from  the  distant  landscape,  my  com- 
panion concentrates  his  attention.  "Well,  —  I  see  men 
have  been  chopping  wood  here." 

I  laugh  outright!     I  had  n't  noticed  the  chips. 

"Anything  else?" 

"Nothing  but  weeds,"  he  insists. 

I  stoop  and  pick  half  a  dozen  sprays  of  exquisite  brown 
and  green  tiny  orchids,  and  hold  them  up  for  his  admiration. 

"They  are  n't  pretty  at  all.  They  look  just  like  black 
bugs  crawling  up  the  stem!"  but  that  they  are  extraordi- 
nary he  has  to  acknowledge. 

Strangest  of  all,  in  this  far-off  forest  grows  the  Conopho- 
lis  Americana,  or  squaw-root,  which  I  have  never  found 
anyw^here  except  in  our  native  woods.  Great  birch-trees, 
three  or  four  feet  in  diameter,  lie  prone  where  they  have 
fallen;  if  in  the  water,  they  are  soon  covered  with  a  velvety 
growth  and  gleam  like  silver  beneath  the  surface.  Ferns 
in  endless  variety  and  beauty  cover  the  ground  and  fringe  the 
cascades;  the  maidenhair  quivers  in  the  soft  breezes;  and 
beside  the  rushing  torrents,  hang  ivy  and  thick  grasses. 

Spruce-trees  and  hedges  of  bridal  wTeath,  with  mar- 
guerites and  geraniums,  adorn  the  grounds  of  the  hotel,  in 
rather  startling  contrast  to  the  surrounding  wilderness. 
This  building  was  put  up  by  a  club  of  Agram  gentlemen  who 
take  turns  at  managing  it.  The  season  has  not  yet  begun, 
a  preoccupied  bride  and  groom  being  the  only  other  guests. 
We  know  that  the  Croatians  are  intensely  patriotic  and  cling 

303 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

tenaciously  to  their  mother-tongue ;  —  but  we  are  hardly 
prepared  for  the  extent  to  which  they  carry  it  here.  All 
the  room  notifications,  the  announcements,  the  time  tables, 
the  bill-of-fare,  even,  are  printed  in  that  Slavic  language. 
The  only  bottled  water  obtainable  is  tagged  with  the,  to  us, 
formidable  cognomen,  "Jamnicka  Kiselica";  but  it  tastes 
like  our  Poland  water  and  so  thoroughly  satisfies  us.  The 
steward  is  the  only  person  on  the  premises  who  even  under- 
stands German;  the  boatman,  who  ferries  us  across  Lake 
Kosjak,  knows  no  language  but  Croatian,  and  when  we 
wish  to  make  excursions  along  the  beach  into  pools  where 
water  lihes  grow,  all  explanations  have  to  be  by  gestures. 

The  bath-houses  at  the  pier  are  built  into  the  water,  so 
that  if  one  wishes  to  swim  in  the  open  lake  it  is  necessary 
to  dive  under  the  wooden  partition;  but  the  crystal 
water  looks  very  tempting,  and  in  the  early  morning  a 
frequent  splash  and  merry  shouts  betray  the  presence  of 
appreciative  souls. 

Later  on  a  gypsy  fire  flamed  upon  the  shore,  and  a  huge 
boiler,  —  not  at  all  a  romantic  object,  —  stood  upon  it; 
but  the  gypsy  women,  in  their  brilliant  gowns,  made  a 
dashing  picture  as  they  spread  the  clean  white  linen  on  the 
bushes  and  young  trees. 

Half  in  my  dreams,  one  morning,  I  heard  a  haunting 
melody,  —  just  three  or  four  phrases  of  a  part  song,  — 
which  came  nearer,  then  slowly  died  away  in  the  distance. 
In  the  evening  again  I  heard  the  sweet  refrain;  and,  looking 
out,  saw  groups  of  men  and  women  returning  from  the  fields 
with  rakes  and  spades  over  their  shoulders.     Their  bright 

304 


LEAVING    BOSNIA 

yellow  and  white  kerchiefs,  and  their  red  caps  shone  in  the 
last  rays  of  the  low  sun.  The  chant  was  not  sad  nor  in  a 
minor  key,  but  full  of  joy  and  cheer;  and  they  walked  with 
zest  and  rapidity,  not  betraying  the  least  fatigue  after  the 
day's  task.  As  one  group  passed,  another  took  up  the  song, 
—  each  seeming  to  await  a  certain  moment  in  which  to 
begin, —  so  that  over  and  over  the  harmonious  tones  blended 
and  parted  and  blended  again. 


30s 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
TO   AGRAM   AND    MARBURG 

TT  is  an  exquisite  day  of  sunshine  and  south  wind  when, 

reluctantly,  we  leave  the  luminous  Lakes  of  Plitvica; 
leave  the  roaring  falls  and  tumbling  cascades,  the  birds  and 
wild  flowers,  the  glorious  forest,  —  and  turn  our  faces 
northward  toward  Agram. 

Over  rocky  hills  covered  with  a  stunted  growth  of  bushes, 
passing  the  road  to  Saborski  and  taking  the  one  to  the  right 
for  Dreznik,  we  follow  the  Korana  River  on  its  way  from 
the  lakes  to  the  sea.  The  road  is  very  dusty,  occasionally 
sprinkled  with  fresh  stone,  and  an  endless  line  of  horses  and 
oxen  drawing  empty  wagons  are  upon  it.  Patient  peasants 
toil  up  the  slopes  carrying  pails  and  barrels  of  water  from  the 
river;  for  every  field,  however  steep,  is  carefully  cultivated 
and  the  Korana  is  the  only  source  of  irrigation. 

A  church  steeple  in  a  small  town  before  us  indicates 
Dreznik.  At  times  we  ride  in  the  grateful  shade  of  big 
trees,  but  as  a  rule  the  highway  is  unprotected  and  the  sun 
beats  down  upon  it  unmercifully. 

Near  the  cross-road  to  Rakovica  shepherdesses  with 
fingers  busily  knitting  smile  gleefully  upon  us;  a  teamster 
wearing  an  elaborate  brass-studded  belt  and  a  sheepskin 
coat  over  his  white  clothes  salutes  us  awkwardly  as  we  speed 
by.  A  magnificent  linden  sheltering  a  poor  log  house;  a 
cemetery  on  a  hill,  with  many  curious  wooden  crosses; 

306 


TO    AGRAM    AND    MARBURG 

crested  larks  and  black  and  white  whcatears  are  part  of  tlic 
swiftly  changing  scene. 

At  one  of  the  scattered  farmhouses  beyond  Rakovica, 
the  peasants  are  having  their  breakfast  out  of  doors,  or  say, 
rather,  their  second  meal ;  for  it  is  half-past  nine  and  they 
break  their  fast  with  the  rising  sun.  No  wonder  they  have 
five  meals  a  day!  Further  on,  amidst  rocks  and  bracken, 
ahernating  with  grain  fields,  a  wayside  well  surrounded  by 
stone  curbing  makes  a  background  for  a  group  of  children ; 
the  boys  doff  their  red  caps,  the  little  girls  bend  from  the 
waist  in  a  quaint  curtsey. 

"What  a  charming  picture ! "    cries  the  Enthusiast. 

Near-by  are  women  with  long-fringed  dark  bags  hung, 
knapsack  fashion,  from  the  belt  across  the  back.  Still 
winding  over  hilltops  we  enter  Bredzovac,  where,  making  a 
long  bend,  we  come  to  the  Korana  River  again,  now  swollen 
into  quite  a  stream,  but  retaining  its  peculiar  greenish-blue 
color.  Here,  again,  men  with  flattened  barrels  on  their 
backs  and  women  with  pails  upon  their  heads  are  carrying 
water  from  the  stream  two  hundred  feet  below. 

Passing  through  Slunji,  with  its  ruined  castle,  we  cross 
the  river  at  an  island  of  picturesque  mills,  over  foaming 
cascades,  and  then  down  the  stream  to  the  left  on  the  way 
to  Veljun.  The  pink  hawthorn  is  in  flower,  and  the  bracken 
a  foot  high,  but  half  unfolded.  Fields  of  bluish  barley  and 
green  v/heat  just  coming  to  a  head ;  or  acres  of  brown  earth 
where  oxen,  in  teams  of  four,  are  at  the  plough;  a  rather 
monotonous  landscape,  but  there  is  always  a  bird  to  watch, 
a  tree  to  name,  a  distant  church  spire  to  wonder  about,  or 

307 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

an  open-mouthed  goat-herd  to  salute.  The  children  up  to 
five  years  of  age  wear  but  one  garment.  The  cart  horses, 
at  sight  of  us,  instantly  take  to  the  fields  or  the  ditch,  al- 
though it  is  not  the  dumb  animals  who  are  afraid, —  it  is  the 
peasants  behind  them. 

"Another  family  around  the  festive  board,"  exclaims 
the  Enthusiast;  —  literally  a  "board,"  with  a  bowl  in  the 
centre  containing  the  food,  and,  beside  it,  a  loaf  of  bread. 
How  it  must  simplify  housekeeping  not  to  have  to  set  a  table 
or  wash  a  dish!  As  we  fly  by  the  boys'  school  at  Blagaj, 
they  swing  their  crimson  caps  with  a  concerted,  spontane- 
ous yell,  and  we  respond  with  fluttering  handkerchiefs. 

Beyond  Veljun,  we  coast  down  a  long  straight  hill,  with 
glimpses  of  a  gypsy  camp  by  the  wayside,  more  elaborate 
crosses  in  a  church  yard,  and  yellow  iris  beside  a  brook.  We 
are  bound  for  Krnjak  and  the  posts  every  few  kilometers 
assure  us  that  we  are  drawing  nearer.  A  smiling  face  is 
framed  in  a  small  square  window  as  we  stop  to  permit  six 
loaded  wagons  to  go  by. 

"  Do  you  realize  that  we  have  n't  seen  a  single  so-called 
English  sparrow  in  Croatia?"  remarks  the  Enthusiast. 

"No,  I  had  n't,"  answers  her  companion. 

"Do  you  suppose  —  " 

At  that  moment,  from  a  big  barnyard,  a  flock  of  those 
same  saucy  creatures  fly  across  our  path,  —  and  we  can 
only  look  at  each  other  in  mutual  dismay.  But  the  ditches 
filled  with  buttercups  and  daisies;  the  meadows  with  tall 
nodding  hare-bells  and  yellow  iris;  the  scarlet  poppies  undu- 
lating in  the  wheat ;  the  brook  bordered  with  the  American 

308 


TO    AGRAM    AND    MARBURG 

way-faring  tree  {viburnum  alnijolium)  —  all  these  gladden 
our  eyes  until  we  pass  Krnjak,  and  ELarlovac  (in  German, 
Karlstadt),  where  we  are  to  take  luncheon,  makes  its  appear- 
ance on  the  sign-posts. 

Crossing  an  iron  bridge  over  the  Radonja  River  we  come 
to  the  Korana  again,  just  beyond  Tusilovic,  where  boys 
splashing  in  a  mill-pond  fill  us  with  envy;  for  the  highway 
is  bare  and  dusty,  rough  and  shadeless,  and  the  air  fright- 
fully hot.  Over  a  small  pass,  where  wild  roses  and  pink 
clover  comfort  us,  we  have  our  first  view  of  Karlovac,  — 
and  a  road  thronged  with  gorgeously  costumed  peasants, 
for  again  it  is  a  market  day.  We  simply  crawl  through  the 
suburbs  of  Mostanje,  Ubinja,  and  Rakovac  into  Karlovac; 
for  the  streets  are  filled  with  people  driving  sheep,  pigs, 
goats,  and  cattle  back  to  the  country.  In  carts  and  on  foot, 
the  gayly  dressed  natives,  —  apparently  unmindful  of  the 
intense  heat  of  noonday,  —  go  stolidly  about  their  affairs. 
Some  of  the  women  are  decked  with  elaborate  necklaces 
of  overlapping  coins,  others  wear  a  heart-shaped  sort  of 
breast -plate  covered  all  over  with  the  coins,  like  spangles; 
curious  frames  support  the  head-dresses;  the  skirts  are 
embroidered  in  red  or  blue  cross-stitch,  and  the  lout 
ensemble  is  most  striking. 

How  grateful  the  peace  and  coolness  of  that  upper 
chamber  in  the  crowded  hotel! 

*'Yes,  this  unusual  heat,"  says  the  landlord,  "has 
lasted  for  two  weeks.     We  are  hoping  for  a  change  soon." 

From  the  shaded  windows  we  watch  the  throng,  and  once 
or  twice  I  clutch  frantically  at  my  kodak  as  a  more  than 

309 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

usually  picturesque  group  presents  itself;  but  the  heat  is 
so  terrible  I  really  do  not  dare  to  venture  out-doors.  Here 
we  rest  until  three  o'clock  and  then  set  out  for  Agram,  only 
thirty-six  miles  away. 

Through  the  Oriental-looking  shoe  market,  over  the 
broad  Kulpa  River,  across  the  railroad,  we  take  the  first 
road  to  the  right.  In  the  maze  of  animals,  wagons,  and  people 
we  are  obliged  to  go  very  slowly  and  often  to  stop;  but  the 
way  is  broad,  if  somewhat  rough,  and  the  surrounding 
country  charming.  More  meadows  extend  beside  us,  filled 
with  buttercups  and  clover,  or  poppies  in  the  fields  of  grain; 
if  a  swamp,  't  is  yellow  with  velvet  iris;  if  a  grove,  brilliant 
with  camping  gypsies.  A  company  of  geese  hiss  their  dis- 
approval with  one  accord,  coming  at  us  with  outstretched 
wings.     No  cowards,  they! 

Through  Mrzljaki  and  Jazvaci  and  Petasse,  small  vil- 
lages in  a  prosperous  plain,  we  cross,  beyond  the  side  road 
to  Krasic,  the  Kupcina  River;  and  soon  after  enter  Jastre- 
barsko.  Here  is  a  compactly  built,  comfortable  little  town, 
with  a  pretty  park  and  many  shops. 

On  leaving  Jastrebarsko  we  descend  into  a  woodsy  glen, 
then  out  again  on  a  broad,  smooth  road,  passing  through 
the  hills.  The  sky  becomes  overcast  and  near  Klincaselo  we 
are  rejoiced  by  a  small  shower,  —  sufficient  to  lay  the  dust, 
yet  not  enough  to  spoil  our  view,  for  soon  we  can  discern 
the  spires  of  Agram's  cathedral,  eighteen  kilometers  away. 
Beyond  Rakovpotok,  at  a  cross-road,  we  keep  to  the  right 
through  Stupink  and  Lucko,  where  the  long  well-sweeps 
remind  us  of  Italy,  —  and  the  rain  ceases. 

310 


^ 

^ 

•  < 

:^ 

• 

4. 


PEASANTS   NEAR   KARLOXAC 
A   BOSXIAX   MILL 


t^nj^s^j^^^y^^^^^i^^?^ 


THE    CHURCH    OF    ST.    MARK,    A(JRA.\I 


TO    AGRAM    AND    MARBURG 

The  roads  approaching  all  large  cities  arc  sure  to  be 
worn  and  rough  and  this  one  is  no  exception ;  but  deep  red 
peonies  bloom  in  cottage  gardens ;  the  hedges  are  white  with 
elder  blossoms,  and  great  sprays  of  wild  roses  intermingle 
with  the  ivory  flowers.  Hurrying  by  Blato  and  Remetinec,  — 
crossing  the  Save,  —  we  are  in  Zagreb,  or  Agram,  as  for- 
eigners call  it. 

We  arc  surprised  to  find  here  in  the  capital  of  Croatia 
an  attractive  city  with  fme  public  buildings ;  a  characteristic 
market  square,  a  shaded  promenade  in  the  upper  town,  and 
a  fine  cathedral;  —  not  to  omit  an  excellent  hotel,  where  all 
the  fruits  of  civilization  are  vastly  appreciated,  and  where 
we  feast  on  a  special  kind  of  sterlet,  only  found  in  the  Save 
River.  While  at  luncheon  one  noon  on  the  shaded  terrace, 
a  postman  approaches  our  table  with  a  big  automobile  tire, 
well- wrapped,  hung  carelessly  on  his  arm,  and  offering  the 
Leader  a  bit  of  paper  asks  if  the  tire  is  for  him.  Yes,  this 
is  the  one  telegraphed  for  a  few  days  ago.  The  bill  having 
been  paid,  the  obliging  postman  carries  the  heavy  ring  up- 
stairs to  our  apartment  and  we  again  laud  the  convenience 
of  the  parcels-post. 

Probably  one  cause  of  the  modern  appearance  of  Agram 
is  the  earthquake  of  1880,  which  partially  destroyed  the 
city.  The  upper  town  retains  some  flavor  of  antiquity, 
although  the  thirteenth  century  church  of  St.  Mark  has  a 
roof  of  brilliant  tiles  outlining  the  arms  of  the  province, 
which  appears  to  be  new.  Near  here  is  the  Palace  of  the 
Governor,  or  Ban,  of  Croatia; — how  interesting  the  old  Slavic 
titles  are !    In  the  Kapitel  Stadt  is  the  Gothic  Cathedral  of 

311 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

the  fifteenth  century,  with  two  splendid  spires  restored 
within  the  last  ten  years.  Close  by  is  the  fortress-like 
palace  of  the  archbishop,  with  round  towers  on  each 
corner. 

The  Croatians  are  especially  proud  of  the  educational 
opportunities  which  are  here  offered  to  the  student.  In- 
stalled in  elaborate  buildings  are  the  Francis  Josef  Univer- 
sity, its  chemical  laboratory,  a  Natural  History  Museum,  an 
Agricultural  Society,  and  the  South  Slavonian  Academy  of 
Science ;  besides  good  preparatory  schools  —  the  instruction 
being  in  all  cases  in  Croatian.  The  shops,  the  street  signs, 
even  the  performances  in  the  fine  theatre,  are  all  in  the 
native  tongue  and  no  other  language  is  understood.  Although 
politically  Croatia  is  at  present  a  province  of  Hungary  the 
two  peoples  hate  each  other  as  only  neighbors  of  alien 
races  can. 

There  are  usually  enough  country  folk  in  the  busy  streets 
to  give  individuality  to  the  town ;  the  women  in  full  plaited 
or  short-banded  skirts,  with  plenty  of  beads  and  gay  head- 
kerchiefs;  and  the  men!  —  the  combination  of  wide,  white, 
fringed,  short  trousers  above  high  boots,  with  a  long  apron, 
embroidered  sleeveless  jacket,  and  tiny  rimless  black  slouch 
hat,  is  too  absurd  for  words. 

With  a  red  umbrella  under  one  arm,  an  embroidered 
reticule  slung  over  the  shoulder,  these  peasants  frequently 
walk  all  night  to  the  nearest  market  town.  Small  wonder, 
perhaps,  if  by  the  next  night  they  succumb  to  the  tempting 
convivialities  of  the  city,  and  seek  the  shelter  of  a  convenient 
ditch  until  able  to  continue  their  homeward  jaunt.    We 

312 


tf,  J   Y9  >^^ 


THE    MARKE  r-PLACK,    Ac;R.\M 
CROATIAN   COUXTRYWmiEN 


■'  «, 


p>" 


A  c:koaii.\,\  I'KAsaxt 


TO    AGRAM    AND    MARBURG 

saw  many  instances  of  this  failing  and  were  told  that  the 
good-natured  Croatian  is  peculiarly  prone  to  this  form  of 
relaxation. 

It  is  very  hot  in  Agram;  even  at  night  there  is  little 
freshness  in  the  air  and  we  are  longing  for  the  north;  so 
after  two  days  we  leave  the  Croatian  capital,  and  follow  the 
valley  of  the  Save  to  Samobor.  The  road  is  good,  although 
narrow  and  unshaded ;  the  house  roofs  gay  with  fancy  tiles, 
sometimes  the  date,  occasionally  the  man's  name,  outlined 
in  huge  letters.  Many  gypsies  are  en  route  and  in  a  shallow 
pool  a  boy  and  a  girl  are  gayly  washing  pigs,  —  preparing 
them  for  sale,  perhaps,  —  for  at  Samobor  itself  we  saw 
our  last  picturesque  market.  Here  the  peasants'  clothes 
are  snowy  white,  with  brilliant  embroideries  and  kerchiefs 
and  beads! 

Passing  Luc  and  Jazbina  and  Podvrk,  we  come  to  Brc- 
gana,  and  leaving  Croatia,  enter  Styria.  Instantly  the  style 
of  house  changes  and  the  pretty  costumes  vanish.  Here 
the  people  wear  ugly  dark  slinky  calico  gowns,  and  hideous 
shapeless  hats  in  place  of  the  gay  Croatian  kerchiefs.  For 
nearly  two  months  now  we  have  seen  only  quaint  and  be- 
coming costumes  and  the  change  to  the  garb  of  so-called 
civilization  is  a  distinct  shock. 

The  road,  however,  is  much  better,  beneath  pines  and 
spruces  by  the  river's  brink,  with  an  endless  variety  of  wild 
flowers;  it  offers  us  compensations  and  restores  our  droop- 
ing spirits.  By  the  chdteau  of  Reichselstein  and  cottages 
variously  decorated  with  stripes  and  crude  drawings,  we 
cross  the  Save  at  Rann ;  and  here  another  low  chdteau,  with 

3^3 


MOTORING   IN    THE    BALKANS 

three  round  towers  and  vine-draped  jagade,  attracts  our 
admiration. 

At  Gurkfeldt, —  one  long  broad  street  of  houses,  shops, 
and  churches, —  we  turn  to  the  right  and  follow  the  narrow 
valley  of  the  Save  again.  This  river,  which  in  the  course  of 
its  long  career  serves  as  a  boundary  between  Croatia, 
Slavonia,  and  Bosnia,  is  here  broad  and  still,  with  picturesque 
rafts  of  lumber,  guided  by  men  at  either  end.  Schloss 
Neustein  rises  on  a  height  at  the  right ;  on  the  left  the  bank 
is  clothed  with  fragrant  woods,  sprays  of  pink  honeysuckle 
clamber  over  hedges  of  elder  and  viburnum;  apple  orchards 
alternate  with  clover  fields  and  patches  of  flowering  beans; 
—  it  is  an  adorable  winding  way,  the  sky  overcast,  the  air 
so  heavenly  cool.  On  we  go  through  a  beech  forest  and  an 
avenue  of  luscious  locust;  beneath  spruces  and  feathery 
larches ;  past  Radua,  stopping  only  to  gather  some  of  the  wild 
flowers  which  border  the  river's  brink ;  then  by  Verhovo  and 
Hottemesch  with  their  thatched  haystacks  green  with  moss. 

At  Steinbruck,  leaving  the  Save,  we  cross  one  of  its 
tributaries,  the  Sann,  and  follow  it  to  Cilli.  The  Sann,  too, 
seems  a  favorite  waterway  for  lumber  rafts,  as  it  flows 
strong,  swift,  and  deep,  between  high-wooded  hills.  The 
rich  blue  salvia  in  the  fields  reflects  the  hue  of  heaven,  and 
the  fragrance  of  the  locust  is  overpowering. 

"This  is  the  kind  of  a  road  I  like!"  exclaims  Madame 
Content,  apropos  of  nothing  new.  It  is  a  sort  of  glorified 
cowpath,  smooth  and  shady,  wandering  around  the  foot* 
hills,  or  occasionally  running  up  to  the  door  of  a  farmhouse; 
passing  tempting  lanes  into  deep  forests;  by  open  windows 

314 


TO    AGRAM    AND    MARBURG 

gay  with  brilliant  flowers;  and  at  last  entering  the  stately 
and  famous  chestnut  avenue  at  Romerbad.  We  speed 
gayly  up  the  winding  stream,  noting  with  surprise  haymows 
ornamented  with  large  wooden  crucifixes;  others  have  a 
kind  of  pavilion  in  front,  with  a  grape-vine  trained  over  it. 
A  white  church  with  an  "onion"  steeple  stands  conspicuous- 
ly at  a  bend  in  the  road,  and,  across  the  river,  on  our  right, 
we  see  TufTer's  ruined  castle. 

How  charmingly  the  Germans  lay  out  their  summer 
resorts!  Here  at  Kaiser  Franz  Josef  Bad  the  high-clipped 
locust  hedges  surround  beautiful  gardens;  many  paths  are 
marked  in  the  forest;  and  if  one  is  ambitious  for  a  steep 
climb,  the  Humberg  (1920  feet)  is  at  one's  disposal. 

Soon,  on  a  wooded  height,  appears  a  battlemented  don- 
gonkeep,  still  guarding  a  crumbling  castle.  It  is  the  ruins 
of  Ober-Cilli,  and  crossing  the  Sann  by  a  toll  bridge,  we 
enter  the  town  of  Cilli.  Although  this  was  one  of  the  colon- 
ies founded  by  the  Emperor  Claudius  (A.  D.  54),  it  bears  no 
evidence  of  its  great  age.  Its  museum  contains  some  Roman 
antiquities,  but  its  charm  lies  in  its  beautiful  environs,  its 
river  paths,  and  mountain  views.  Our  luncheon  is  served 
under  the  shade  of  mammoth  chestnuts  flourishing  in  the 
pebbly  pavement  and  apparently  enjoying  the  protection 
offered  by  the  walls  of  the  two-storied  courtyard. 

At  Cilli  we  leave  the  river  Sann  and  go  due  north, 
through  hop  gardens  watered  by  the  Kotting  brook,  with 
splendid  views  of  the  Steiner  Alps  still  covered  with  snow. 
It  is  a  comfort  to  have  excellent  roads  again,  and  a  respite 
from  constant  sunshine! 

315 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

"My  Baedeker  has  lots  more  in  it  than  yours,  any  way"; 
I  venture  to  reply  when  its  fat,  tied-up  sides  threaten  to 
give  way  and  cause  contemptuous  mirth  among  the  other 
members  of  the  party. 

"Such  a  looking  book!"  jeers  Madame  Content. 

"Why  do  you  carry  it?"  demands  the  Leader. 

"For  a  herbarium,"  I  frankly  reply;  and  the  conver- 
sation ends. 

At  Hohenegg  a  range  of  dark  blue  hills  encloses  the  wide 
valley  on  the  north,  and  we  turn  to  the  right  over  a  broad, 
but  not  dusty  highway,  bound  for  Gonobitz.  Passing 
Castle  Sternstein  on  an  adjacent  peak,  the  road  bordered 
with  apple-trees,  winds  through  the  forest,  following  a 
rippling  brook.  Flying  through  a  more  open  valley,  the 
near  green  hills  swiftly  become  blue  in  the  distance ;  beyond 
Tepanje  heavy  clouds  throw  purple  shadows  on  forest-clad 
heights,  where  a  white  church  lifts  its  slender  spire. 

We  get  charming  landscapes  from  each  new  hilltop 
between  Preloge  and  Windisch-Feistritz.  How  familiar 
the  fringed  pinks  in  the  cottage  garden,  —  the  windows  are 
gay  with  flowers,  geraniums  and  fuchsias,  marguerites  and 
cacti,  even  oleanders  in  the  bays. 

We  have  come  out  of  the  clouds,  here,  and  the  sun  is 
shining  over  the  wide  valley  as  we  pass  Kotsch,  hurry 
through  Wochau  with  its  magnificent  avenue  of  old  lindens, 
beneath  the  isolated  peak  of  St.  Urban,  —  and  enter 
Marburg  through  a  double  row  of  Lombardy  poplars. 


316 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MARBURG  — GRATZ  — THE   SEMMERING 

'^JOW  that  wc  have  entered  a  country  where  there  is  a 
choice  of  roads,  the  Leader  spends  even  more  time 
poring  over  maps  and  hunting  for  sights  worth  seeing  along 
the  way.  Sometimes  he  asks  politely:  "Where  shall  we 
stop  to-night  ?"  —  hoping  that  some  inspiration  may  suggest 
the  most  interesting  spot  en  route.  Once  the  Gentle  Lady 
answered  from  her  heart:  "I  think  it  would  be  real  nice  if 
you  could  find  a  little  inn  by  a  small  river  with  trees  all  about 
it;  a  clean,  quiet  place,  where  there  will  be  no  one  but  our- 
selves and,  of  course,  good  things  to  eat." 

"They  must  n't  keep  chickens,  for  they  are  so  noisy  in 
the  morning,"  added  the  Enthusiast,  "and — " 

"I  suppose  the  inn  must  be  in  a  garden,  away  from  the 
dusty  highroad,  and  no  waterfalls  must  disturb  the  peace!" 
sarcastically  interrupted  the  Leader. 

"And  the  windows  must  have  heavy  curtains  to  shut 
out  the  morning  glare,"  went  on  placidly  the  Gentle  Lady, 
half  seriously. 

"Well,  I  think  we  shall  be  far  more  apt  to  encounter  my 
ideal  than  yours,"  said  the  Leader,  in  a  tone  of  finality. 
"What  we  really  want  is  a  great  cathedral,  a  splendid 
chdteaii,  an  historic  ruin,  a  mediaeval  building,  a  famous 
painting;  —  what  matters  the  rest?" 

"But  to-morrow  night  wc  will  be  up  in  the  mountains, 

317 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

won't  we?"  asked  his  companion,  with  an  air  of  putting 
aside  all  those  earthly  glories. 

"Yes,  but  I  think  we  will  stop  at  Gratz  for  luncheon." 
And  there  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  which,  to  the  initiated, 
told  of  "sights"  to  be  seen. 

Church  bells  woke  me  early  the  next  morning,  then  the 
sound  of  moving  footsteps  on  the  flagged  streets,  and  rush- 
ing to  the  window  I  witnessed  a  bit  of  mediaeval  life,  very 
charming  in  this  prosaic  age.  For  over  an  hour,  long  files 
of  men  and  women,  priests  and  nuns,  schoolboys  and  girls, 
bearing  banners  of  varying  degrees  of  size  and  beauty, 
marched  slowly  through  the  streets  of  Marburg,  chanting 
in  unison. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  the  little  maid. 

"It  is  a  procession,"  she  gravely  responded.  "To-day 
is  Monday, —  they  will  be  going  on  all  this  week." 

"But  why?"     I  persisted. 

"  It  is  the  month  of  Mary."  And  she  looked  her  surprise 
at  my  ignorant  questionings. 

On  the  broad  river  Drau,  or  Drave,  rise  Marburg's  red 
roofs  in  the  midst  of  waving  green ;  for  its  wide  avenues  are 
planted  with  chestnuts  in  quadruple  rows  and  each  tiny 
walled  garden  overflows  with  vines  and  shrubs.  The  quaint 
market-place  retains  its  charm  of  age  and  the  newly  laid-out 
Stadt-Park,  with  its  flowery  meadows  and  shaded  lanes, 
seems  a  bit  of  the  real  country  preserved  for  the  city's  use. 

Over  a  smooth  highway,  lined  with  apple-trees  and 
bordered  by  vineyards  alternating  with  clover  fields,  orchards, 
and  hop  plantations,  we  bowl  gayly  northward.    A  growth 

318 


TH1-:    ILICA,    AC.RA.M 
A   CROATIAN   HARXKSS 


UK    I'ROCESSIOX    AT    MARHURC 


MARBURG-GRATZ 

of  young  forest  trees  covers  the  low  hills,  where  neat  plaster 
houses  with  broad  thatched  or  tiled  roofs  peep  from  the 
shade.  The  temperature  is  perfect,  —  sunshine  but  cool 
air,  —  so  that  once  more  we  have  donned  our  coats  and 
waterproof  dusters.  Near  Strichowctz  we  meet  an  immense 
load  of  broom-corn  tied  for  the  factory.  The  shrines  are 
very  beautiful  on  this  highway;  one  of  faded  pink  stucco 
is  shaded  by  rosy  hawthorn  branches;  another  twined  with 
wild  roses  and  clamboring  honeysuckle. 

Crossing  the  Mur,  we  stop  to  kodak  an  attractive  seven- 
teenth century  chdteau,  with  an  adjacent  chapel,  and  get 
our  first  view  of  the  Schwanberg  Alps.  It  is  difficult  to 
resist  culling  an  armful  of  wild  flowers,  they  are  so  abund- 
ant;—  purple  larkspur  and  buttercups,  yellow  and  white 
daisies,  wild  carrots  and  a  kind  of  branching  dandelion 
twelve  to  twenty  inches  high ;  a  pinkish  and  lavender  scabi- 
osa;  all  sprinkled  through  tall  grasses  and  nodding  in  the 
soft  air.  But  the  smooth  straight  road  is  too  attractive,  the 
motion  too  enticing.  Speeding  through  Kleinwagna,  across 
the  Mur  again,  with  only  a  glance  at  Leibnitz,  we  hurry 
along,  and  —  to  our  surprise,  meet  an  automobile!  To 
this  we  are  totally  unaccustomed  and  we  slow  down  in  dis- 
gust, until  its  trail  of  dust  shall  have  passed! 

**0n  this  plain  once  stood  the  Roman  city,  Flavium 
Solvense,"  remarks  the  Leader.  "Near  Leibnitz  they  have 
found  many  fragments  and  inscriptions.  It  might  be  inter- 
esting— " 

But  our  persistent  silence  puts  a  damper  upon  this  sug- 
gestion and  we  proceed  up  the  valley  of  the  Mur,  climb 

319 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

over  a  small  ridge,  and  descend  to  the  summer  resort  of 
Wildon.  Up  its  one  steep  street  we  mount,  sliding  down  to 
the  Kainach  River;  the  hills  recede  and  in  the  fields  men  and 
women  are  spading.  The  cottages  have  quaint  legends 
inscribed  so  all  may  read,  —  "Gemutliches  Heim,"  "Frol- 
iches  Heim,"  in  large  letters  on  the  gables,  —  and  near 
them  stand  tall  poles,  each  topped  with  a  bush  or  a  tree  or  a 
banner.  Are  these  last  in  honor  of  the  Kaiser's  jubilee; 
or  only  the  usual  May-poles?     On  one  house  is  a  tablet: 

F.  J.  S. 

1879 
I.  H.  S. 
A  travelling  show  goes  by  us;  the  camel  looks  his  accus- 
tomed weary  self  and  quite  disdains  our  noisy  flight;  the 
monkeys  make  faces  and  chatter  from  their  cage;  but  evi- 
dently the  entire  company  are  quite  used  to  automobiles. 
White  clouds  are  gathering  about  the  horizon  and  snow 
can  be  seen  on  the  Schwanberg  Alps.  By  Rattsdorf  and 
Ledern  we  crawl  carefully  along,  as  the  valley  is  so  thickly 
populated  as  to  form  an  almost  continuous  village.  The 
road  has  become  rough  and  muddy  and  we  meet  companies 
of  artillery  on  the  way  to  field -practice;  for  Gratz  is  the  cap- 
ital of  Styria  and  has  a  garrison  of  5100  men.  It  is  a  cheer- 
ful and  attractive  little  city  on  the  Mur,  and  I  am  sure  one 
might  be  very  comfortable  in  its  ''Hotel  Elephant";  also 
it  has  enough  "sights"  to  interest  a  traveller  for  three  days, 
at  least. 

But  we  were  not  sightseers  that  day;    we  had  frankly 
joined  the  ranks  of  motorists  only;  —  and  we  refused  to  be 

320 


MARBURG  — GRATZ 

beguiled  into  museums  and  art  galleries,  or  led  to  heights 
for  "wonderful  views."  The  shelter  of  the  shady  terrace 
where  we  had  our  luncheon  satisfied  us  completely;  only 
the  Leader,  indefatigable  and  untiring,  went  bravely  forth 
and  "did"  the  town. 

On  his  return  he  was  genuinely  enthusiastic  and  reported, 
besides  an  excellent  modern  city  hall  and  museum,  a  six- 
teenth century  building  called  a  Landhaus,  or  Hall  of  the 
Estates,  with  a  beautiful  Renaissance  jagade.  "Adjoining 
this  is  the  Arsenal,  or  Zcughaus,  built  in  1644,  kept  exactly 
as  it  was  at  that  time  and  filled  with  weapons  of  the  period. 
In  the  Imperial  Palace  there  is  a  curious  spiral  staircase, 
done  in  1500,  and  in  the  cathedral,  six  exquisite  ivory  reliefs, 
Italian  work  of  the  sixteenth  century,  representing  scenes 
from  Petrarch's  'I  Trionfi.'" 

When  the  Leader  paused  to  take  breath,  we  almost 
suggested  stopping  over.  "There  are  two  libraries,  also,  — 
one  in  the  Museum  Joanneum  of  about  140,000  volumes, 
including  a  collection  of  rare  books;  the  other  in  the  Uni- 
versity, of  190,000  volumes.  Besides  the  Karl  Franz  Uni- 
versity, with  1750  students,  there  is  a  Technical  College; 
and  in  the  Historical  and  Industrial  Museums  are  old  Styrian 
rooms,  completely  furnished,  of  1564,  1577,  1596,  and  1607, 
with  the  travelling  carriage  of  Emperor  Frederic  III.  and 
the  double  litter  of  Spethan  Bathory,  King  of  Poland,  and 
his  wife.  You  know  he  died  in  1586.  In  another  part 
of  the  building  is  a  very  good  exhibition  of  modern  Styrian 
art  industries." 

By  this  time  we  were  speechless  with  regret.     "  From  the 

321 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

Schlossberg  the  view  is  superb  and  the  crumbling  fortifica- 
tions, overgrown  with  wild  flowers,  extremely  picturesque. 
Constructed  in  the  fifteenth  century  as  a  protection  against 
the  Turks,  they  were  blown  up  by  the  French  in  1809,  after 
a  garrison  of  five  hundred  Austrians  had  defended  the  place 
against  three  thousand  French  for  four  weeks." 

"I  read  that  in  Baedeker,"  interrupted  the  Enthusiast. 

"You  can  see  the  enormous  clock-dial  on  the  hill,  as  we 
go  out,"  continued  the  Leader,  contenting  himself  with  a 
reproachful  glance  at  the  scoffer,  "but  we  must  come  back 
to  Gratz,  some  day,  and  enjoy  leisurely  its  fine  collections." 

"Yes,  some  day,  when  it  is  cool,"  assented  Madame 
Content. 

"Now  for  the  mountains!"  quoth,  gleefully,  the  Enthusi- 
ast, as  we  leave  Gratz,  bound  for  the  Semmering.  Almost 
due  north  we  go,  close  to  the  river,  where,  on  this  twenty- 
fifth  of  May,  women  are  raking  hay  in  sunny  fields.  Long 
tassels  of  curled  shavings  hang  over  the  doors  of  the  country 
inns;  a  curious  survival  of  the  "bush."  Crossing  the  Mur, 
we  enter  a  narrower  valley,  where  an  excellent  bicycle  path 
lies  under  the  apple-trees.  We  meet  fine  big  draft  horses 
in  elaborate  harness,  with  long  strips  of  bright  cloth,  orna- 
mented with  brass  insertions,  hanging  from  the  collar. 

Beyond  Peggau  the  road  is  very  bad,  —  rutty  and  stony; 
the  castle  of  Rabenstein,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  is  a 
dreary,  common-place  building.  Not  so,  however,  the  ruins 
of  Pfannberg,  rising  from  the  depths  of  the  forest,  with  its 
square  tower  and  octagonal  donjon.  We  enter  Frohnleiten 
through  a  beautiful  avenue  of  chestnuts  and  find  it  a  charm- 

322 


.wliS'«A- 


AT   TUK   SEMMERIXG 


MARBURG  — GRATZ 

ing  little  resort,  with  well-laid -out  paths  up  the  forest-clad 
hills.  Beyond,  the  air  is  sweet  with  spruce,  gray  crags  rise 
into  the  blue  sky,  and  snow  appears  upon  a  farther  height. 
Closer  and  closer  grow  the  cliffs  and  the  precipice  of  Rothel- 
stein  looms  on  our  right. 

After  passing  Mixnitz  we  look  curiously  for  "the  Amer- 
ican's chdteau,^^  and  discern  a  comfortable  square  house, 
with  sunny  terraces,  inviting  woods,  and,  doubtless,  beauti- 
ful views  down  the  winding  valley  of  the  Mur. 

Above  Pernegg  the  overlapping  folds  of  the  wooded 
slopes  shut  us  in;  the  clasping  fingers  of  the  clematis  reach 
up  from  the  tangled  hedges;  nearer  and  nearer  come  the 
snow  mountains.  At  Bruck  we  note  a  fifteenth  century 
Gothic  church  and  the  open  loggia  of  the  old  ducal  palace, 
built  in  1 505  and  called  the  Kornmesser-Haus. 

Here  we  cross  the  Mur  and  leave  it,  ascending  the  valley 
of  the  Miirz.  Through  Kapfenburg,  where  a  wonderful 
pink  May  is  trained  over  a  high  gate ;  by  Hafendorf ,  where 
the  road  improves,  as  there  is  less  heavy  teaming;  and  on 
to  St.  Marein  through  a  wider  valley.  Quantities  of  wild 
barberry,  mountain  ash,  and  pear  trees  are  in  blossom; 
houses  are  scattered  over  the  slopes;  through  the  long, 
broad,  treeless  street  of  Kind  berg;  through  Wart  berg,  with 
the  ruins  of  Lichtenegg  Castle  on  a  hill  across  the  Miirz;  — 
we  come  to  Schloss  Pichl's  towers  quite  near  the  river's 
brink. 

We  have  climbed  so  gradually  that  we  are  surprised  to 
find  at  Mittendorf  we  are  already  1935  ^^^^  above  the  sea. 
Gratz  is  1135  feet  and  Marburg  880  feet.     The  valley  is 

323 


MOTORING    IN    THE    BALKANS 

still  broad,  enclosed  by  pointed,  pine-covered  hills,  and  a 
constant  succession  of  villages  enlivens  the  way.  Queer 
yellow  streaks  upon  the  mountain  side  among  the  spruces 
show  where  barkless  telegraph  poles  lie  ready  to  slide  down 
to  the  river  for  transportation. 

We  pass  Langenwang,  with  the  ruined  castle  of  Hohen- 
wang  on  our  right.  At  Miirzzuschlag  the  white  lilacs  vie  with 
the  horse  chestnuts  for  our  admiration,  and  after  passing 
Spital-Rettenegg  we  enter  the  region  of  apple  blossoms 
again.  The  station  of  Steinhaus  lies  below  us  as  we  leave 
the  railroad  and  begin  the  final  climb  to  the  summit  of  the 
Semmering.  The  air  is  really  cold,  patches  of  snow  whiten 
the  hillside;  but  the  road  is  excellent,  with  carefully  pre- 
pared grades,  until  we  make  one  last  steep  turn  and  reach 
the  Hotel  Panhans  at  the  top  of  the  Semmering  Pass 
(3520  feet). 

Do  the  mountains  really  bring  one  nearer  Heaven,  or 
do  they  only  seem  to?  Do  the  birds'  songs  sound  sweeter, 
are  the  trees  a  brighter  green,  do  the  wild  flowers  nod  more 
gayly,  and  is  the  air  more  heavily  laden  with  the  delicious 
fragrance  of  the  balsam  and  the  fir,  or  is  all  this  mere  imag- 
ining? As  I  lean  from  my  balcony  and  look  over  this 
wonderful  prospect,  I  cannot  help  asking  myself  these 
questions.  Far  in  the  distance,  below  the  piled-up  thunder- 
caps,  I  can  just  distinguish  a  winding  stream  amid  low 
grassy  hillocks ;  —  that  way  lies  Vienna  and  our  morrow's 
journeyings.  If  one  could  but  leap  from  mountain  top  to 
mountain  top  and  live  always  upon  the  heights ! 

"Do   you   remember  our   uncertainty   about   enjoying 

324 


MARBURG-GRATZ 

Dalmatia?"  asked  the  Gentle  Lady  that  evening,  as  she 
idly  turned  the  leaves  of  her  illustrated  diary. 

"Indeed,  I  remember  well,"  confirmed  the  Enthusiast, 
"and  how  mention  of  the  Herzegovina  and  Bosnia  brought 
only  visions  of  bandits  and  rocky  fastnesses!  "Just  think, 
it  is  only  about  six  weeks,  to  be  exact,  46  days,  since  we 
left  Trieste—" 

"And  we  have  gone  2253  kilometers,  or  1408  miles," 
added  the  Leader  looking  up  from  his  notebook,  "and  have 
stopped  in  35  towns." 

"As  you  look  back  what  picture  comes  first  to  your 
mind?"  persisted  the  Gentle  Inquisitor. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  Enthusiast,  "that  Good 
Friday  at  Zara,  I  fancied,  nothing  could  be  more  brilliant 
than  the  mass  of  the  Morlacchi,  but  think  of  the  Montene- 
grin uniforms  at  Cetinje!" 

"And  Mostar,"  she  prompted,  "when  the  Herzegovin- 
ians  in  their  soft  white  veils  and  creamy  costumes  floated 
over  the  ancient  bridge!" 

"And  Jajce,"  I  continued,  "at  the  Franciscan  church, 
—  what  variety  and  richness  of  garments  on  both  men  and 
women!  And  so  many  hundreds  of  them!  Perhaps  that 
was  the  crowning  scene.  If  a  person  should  come  blind- 
fold the  whole  distance  from  America,  and  see  but  these  four 
cities,  he  ought  to  feel  richly  repaid  for  his  trouble!" 

"Are  you  forgetting  the  extraordinary  landscapes  we 
have  looked  upon?"  corrected  Her  Ladyship.  "That 
first  sunset  over  Dalmatia,  from  the  Velebit  Mountains? 
How  about  the  Riviera  of  Ragusa  and  the  Bocche  ?    Surely 

325 


MOTORING    IN   THE    BALKANS 

that  climb  over  the  Lovcen  into  Montenegro  has  not  sHpped 
from  your  memory,  or  the  Prenj  Alps  from  the  Ivan  Pass 
just  the  other  day,  or  — " 

"  Stop,  stop,"  I  cry ;  '*  no  one  of  them  have  I  forgotten,  nor 
many,  many  more.  It  is  as  impossible  to  compare  people 
and  scenery  as  a  portrait  and  landscape  in  art.  My  brain 
is  filled  with  pictures.  At  the  word  Trebinje,  —  I  see 
trousered  Turkish  schoolgirls  flying  in  every  direction  at  the 
sight  of  my  kodak;  Travnik,  —  strange  canopied  tombs  on 
the  way  to  a  hot  bazaar;  Jablanica,  —  a  lovely  garden  and 
the  splendid  Turk  who  made  and  brought  our  coffee; 
Gacko,  —  snow  mountains,  seen  through  an  atmosphere 
—  of  onions ;  Mostar,  —  novel  and  varied  costumes  on 
pretty  women;  Hid ze,  —  fragrant  woods  and  moonlight, 
with  many  nightingales;  Jajce,  —  more  nightingales  above 
a  roaring  river." 

We  look  at  each  other  with  the  keen  appreciation  of 
kindred  souls  in  a  reminiscent  mood.  Each  fascinating 
scene,  each  happy  day  has  a  special  corner  in  our  memories, 
and  with  the  utmost  satisfaction  we  recall  the  interesting 
experiences,  the  wonderful  scenery,  the  picturesque  people 
which  have  made  this  motor  trip  in  the  western  Balkans 
over  the  highways  of  Dalmatia  and  Montenegro,  the  Her- 
zegovina, and  Bosnia  one  continuous  delight. 

The  End 


326 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abbadessa  (or  Gomilica),  Castel,  103 

Abbazia,  28,  31-34,  38 

Adriatic  Sea,  24,  25,  28,  138,  145,  197, 

198,  258 
Aginoselo,  286 

Agram,  39,  295,  301,  303,  306,  310313 
Agram    Hotel    (Hotel    Zagreb),    Zengg, 

45.  47 
Alban  Hills,  20 

Albania,  77,  129,  166,  200,  209,  228 
Albanian  Alps,  209 
Albanian  Colony,  77 
Albanian  costume,  202 
Albion,  leader  of  the  Lombards,  30 
Almissa,  128 
Almissa,  bay  of,  1 26 
Almissan  corsairs,  126 
Alpine  chalets,  houses  which  resemble, 

258 
America,  what  it  means  to  natives,  42, 

54,  131.  219 

American  roads,  160 

American  ships  in  Trieste  harbor,  21 

American's  chateau,  near  Mixnitz,  323 

Andreis,  Castel,  103 

Animals,  conduct  of,  on  meeting  motor 
car,  30,  49,  51,  56,  58,  62,  84,  124, 
125,  127,  134,  177,  179,  180,  190, 
191,  195,  196,  198,  287,  293,  296, 
308,  320 

Antivari,  204 

Apennines,  the,  21 

Apothecary  shop  founded  in  1307, 
Ragusa,  150 

Aqueduct  of  Diocletian,  116,  120 

Aquileia,  21,  73,  76,  172 

Arbe,  island  of,  34,  50,  78 

Area  in  San  Simeone,  Zara,  71 

"Argosy,"  derivation  of,  168 

Arione  (Ombla)  River,  143 

Asseria,  ruins  of,  82 

Assumption,  feast  of  the,  celebration 
of,  187 

Aurea,  Porta,  Spalato,  104 

Austria,  war  between  Venice  and,  48; 
Zara  under  rule  of,  74;  Clissa  under 
rule  of,  119;  Dalmatia  province  of, 
160;  Ragusa  Republic  and,  168,  169; 


Bosnia  and  the  Herzegovina  an- 
nexed to,  225;  improvements  under 
rule  of,  226,  260;  Gratz  defended  by, 
322 

Austria,  Hotel,  Mctkovic,  136 

Austrian  admiralty,  105 

Austrian  Automobile  Cluli  run,  235- 
238,  293 

Austrian  city,  Trieste  an,  21 

Avars,  the,  30,  85,  117,  179 

Avtovac,  231 

B 

Babindub,  64 
Baccari  (Bakar),  40 
Badua,  196 

Baedeker's  guide,  21,  82,  183 
Bakar,  40 
Baljevac,  299 

Balkan  Provinces  future  "happy  hunt- 
ing grounds  of  the  motorist,"  27 
Bands,  military,  Ragusa,  175,  176 
Banja,  127 
Banjaluka,  285-291 
Baptistery,  Spalato,  iii,  112 
Barbaric  customs,  survival  of,  140 
Bargello,  Florence,  102 
Bavo,  see  Bua,  island  of 
Beaumont,  Marshal,  129 
Begovich,  Mehmed,  pasha  of  Albania, 

77 
Belgrad  (Zara  Vecchia),  93 
Belgrade,  285 

"Belle  Vista,"  Gravosa,  144 
Bells  rung  at  unusual  hours,  108 
Benedictine  abbey  of  San  Giorgio,    193 
Benedictine  refuge,  Bua,  102 
Benkovac,  20,  81,  82 
Berlin,  treaty  of,  204 
Biagio,  St.,  patron  saint  of  Ragusa,  149, 

152 
Biba,  81 
Bihac,  295-298 
Bilek,  227,  229 
Biljane,  80 

Biljardo,  old  palace,  Cetinje,  203 
Birds,  fearless,  25,  26,  32 
Bjelalovac,  269 
Bjelasnica,  mountain  range  of,  256 


329 


INDEX 


Black  Mountains,  204,  211 

Black  Sea,  258 

"Black   Wallachs"   ("Mauro   Vlach") 

—  the  Morlacchi,  68 
Blagaj,  239,  241,  308 
Blaise,  St.,  see  Biagio,  St. 
Blancard,  General,  129 
Blato,  311 

Boa,  see  Bua,  island  of 
Bocae,  castle  of,  286 
Bocche  di  Cattaro,  27,   168,   171,   172, 
174,  178,  180,  181,  184,  187,  198,  212, 
215,  216,  218,  219,  326 
Bogomile   stones   and    traditions,    251, 

252,  261,  273 
Bokhara,  285 

Bootjacks  on  chairs,  35,  36 
Boraja,  the,  95 
Borak,  Mt.,  126 
Borgo  Erizzo,  77,  81 
Borovoci-Novasela,  135 
Bosna  River,  259,  263,  267 
Bosna  Valley,  259 

Bosnia,  no  road  maps  of.   27;  Uscocs 
driven  from,   48;   Dinarian  Alps  on 
boundary  of,  61 ;  Zara  under,  74;  cos- 
tumes of,  107,  300;  Clissa  under,  119; 
Narenta  River  a  highway  from,  138; 
natives  of,  settled  on  Mt.  Sergio,  148; 
early  kings  of,  181,  271;  under  Turk- 
ish rule,  224;  annexed  to  Austria,  225 ; 
under  Austrian  rule,   226;  roads  of, 
226,  269;  Bogomiles  in,  252;  frontier 
of,    256,    258;   one   of   most   heavily 
timbered  countries  in   Europe,   259; 
mills  of,   270;    tombs  of  viziers  of, 
272;  one-time  chief  city  of,  272;    last 
king  of,  283 ;    Save  River  on  bound- 
ary of,  314 
Bosnisch-Novi,  294,  295 
Botticelle,  Punta  di,  105 
Bradina,  257 
Bransevina,  49 
Bravacic,  Villa,  i6r 
Brazza,  Canale  della,  108 
Brazza,  island  of,  lOO,  119,  124 
Brdjani,  257 
Bredzovac,  307 
Bregana,  313 
Brekozica,  297 
Brela,  Mt.,  127,  128 
Breno,  178 

Breno,  cascades  and  mill  of,  178,  220 
Breno,  Valle  di,  177-179,  222 
Breslovsko,  269 
Brezicani,  293 
Bribir,  83 


Bribir,  counts  of,  83 

Bribir,  Ponte  de,  83 

Bristol,  Hotel,  Zara,  65 

Brooms   made   from   spiky   smilax,   33 

Bruck,  323 

Bua,  island  of,  102,  119 

"Bua,  milk  of,"  etc.,  104 

Buccari,  Bay  of,  40 

Bucharest,  285 

Buffaloes,  291,  292 

Bulgaria,  Uscocs  driven  from,  48 

Bulic,  Professor,  116 

Buljan,  Restaurant,  84-86 

Buna,  source  of  the,  239,  240 

Burdens  borne  by  women,  29,  t,},,  42, 

43.  47.  166,  199,  307 
"Bush,"  survival  of  custom  of  the,  322 
Business  methods  contrasted,  266,  267 
Busovaca,  270 
Byzantines  at  Zara,  73 


Cagli,  21 

Cairo,  225,  248 

Cambio  or  Kambelovac,  Castel,  103 

Camera,  posing  before  the,  87 

Camerlengo,  Castel,  Bua,  102 

Canali,  Val,  220 

Cannosa  (Tristeno),  142 

Capital  punishment  in  Ragusa,  169 

Capodistria,  21,  28 

Carita,  Porta  della,  Ragusa,  151 

Carlopago,  47 

Carob  beans,  114 

Cashmere,  Vale  of,  209 

Cassis  in  road,  48 

Cassone,  Monte,  193 

"Castelli,  wine  of  the,"  etc.,    103,    104 

Castelnuovo,  29,  103,  171-174,  181-183, 

196,  217,  218,  239 
Castua,  31 

Catacombs,  Jajce,  282 
Cathedral,  Agram,  310-312 

"       Sebenico,  91,  93,  94,151 

"        Spalato,  110-112 

"        Trail,  loi 

"        Zara,  68,  70,  71,  89 
Cattaro,   172,   173,   188,   191-196,   203, 

212,  213,  252 
Cattaro,  Bishop  of,  summer     residence 

of,  187 
Cattaro,  Gulf  of,  193,  196,  213,  214 
Cega,  Castel,  103 
Cernica,  fort  of,  230 
Cetina  River  and  Falls,  126-128 


330 


INDEX 


Cetinje,    171,   188,    189,   200-203,    205- 

209,  21 1,  219,  325 
Charles  Robert,   King  of  Hungary,  83 
Charles  V.,  169 
Cherso,  island  of,  31,  49 
Chimiez,  in  the  Riviera,  19 
Chioggia,  22,  74,  78 
Choir  stalls  of  media;val  churches,  102, 

1 10,  III 
Christian  village  house,  type  of,  259 
"Christ's^Thorn,"  213 
Cikalovac,  291 
Cilipi,  180 
Cilli,  314,  315 
Ciovo,  see  Bua,  island  of 
Cippico,  Cariolanus,  103 
Cisasitch,  5 1 

Civita  Castcllana,  fortress  of,  21 
Claudius,  Emperor,    Cilli   founded    by, 

315 

Clissa,  48,  119 

Clissa,  fortress  of,    116,    118,    122,    124 

Colors,  intensity  of,  67 

Comacines,  the,  112 

Communale  Palazzo,  Traii,  loi,  102 

Conscription  at  Banjaluka,  288,  289 

Consonants,  curious  combinations  of, 
in  Slavic  names,  84 

Constantinople,  225 

Constantinovich,  Count,  of  Servia,   203 

Cori,  20 

Cornelio,  Archbishop  Andrea,  112 

Cornice,  comparison  with  the,  43,   142 

Corso,  Ragusa,  153 

Costumes,  native,  23,  30,  31,  33,  34, 
51,  53,  56,  66,  68-70,  85,  90,  99,  100, 
106,  137,  140,  141,  147,  156,  157, 
166,  177,  178,  198,  201,  202,  206, 
226,  228,  229,  235,  242,  243,  246, 
247,  249,  250,  260,  265,  266,  277, 
283,  284,  287-290,  296,  299,  300,  306, 
308,  309,  312,  313   325 

Cottage  legends,  320 

Cozin,  296 

Creches,  Italian,  22 

Crkvenica,  20,  41,  42 

Croat  document,  oldest,  103 

Croatia,  no  road  maps  of,  27;  mountains 
and  lakes  of,  20,  301;  roads  into,  31, 
39,  129;  roads  of,  32;  favorite  resort 
of,  41;  the  Karst  in,  44;  characteris- 
tic cap  of,  47,  51,  299;  typical  farm- 
houses of,  50;  English  language 
unknown  in,  53;  pass  between  Dal- 
matia  and,  59,  60;  Zara  under  rule 
of,  74;  boats  from,  in  Zara  harbor, 
74,  78;  under  Count  of    Bribir,  83; 


frontier  of,  29s;  patriotism  in,  303; 
capital  of,  311,  313;  educational  in- 
stitutions in,  312;  a  Hungarian  prov- 
ince,  312;    Save   River  on  lx)undar>' 

of,  314 
Croatian  Alps,  32 
Crown  Prince  of  Montenegro,  172,  202- 

205,  207,  208,  21 1 
Cyprus,  custom  of  wearing  prayer  in, 

284 
Cyprus,  war  between  Venice  and,  71 

D 

Dabar,  51 

Dalnuite,  II,  Zara,  77 

Dalmatia,  suggestion  in  name  of,  17. 
location  of,  18;  maps  and  roads  of,  18, 
27;  few  railroads  in,  18;  desirable 
season  to  travel  in,  18;  books  on,  20, 
88;  languages  spoken  in,  20,  76,  77, 
121;  routes  to,  20,  21,  47,  63;  dress 
of  natives  of,  23,  248;  motor  travelling 
in,  27;  coast  of,  32;  distance  of 
frontier  of,  from  Gospic,  58;  over  the 
frontier  of,  58-61,  63;  northwestern 
peninsula  of,  61;  natives'  attitude  of 
apology  for  their  frightened  animals 
in,  62;  the  Morlacchi  in,  68;  finest 
jagade  in,  71;  religious  observances 
in,  71;  finest  choir  stalls  in,  72; 
capital  of,  73;  comfortable  accom- 
modations in,  75;  much  to  surprise 
and  perplex  stranger  in,  76;  extremes 
of  civilization  in,  76;  newspapers  of, 
77;  Zara  only  Italian  municipality  in, 
77;  Baedeker's  guide  to,  82;  ruler  of 
(in  1247),  83;  arts  and  sciences  (six- 
teenth century)  in,  93;  no  wild  an- 
imals in,  97 ;  work  of  native  architects 
in,  102;  Salona  ancient  Roman  capn 
ital  of,  104,  117;  Spalato  largest  city 
in,  105;  early  Illyrian  occupation  of, 
107;  excitable  nature  of  natives  of, 
108;  native  boats  in,  108;  Emperor 
Diocletian  a  native  of,  109;  Italian 
influence  in,  121;  Marshal  Beaumont 
commander  under  Napoleon  in,  129; 
has  but  one  dimension,  130;  frontier 
between  the  Herzegovina  and,  134, 
137,  139;  under  Venetian  rule,  137, 
167;  Narona  one  of  three  capitals  of, 
138;  characteristic  cap  of,  140;  ii^" 
dividual  life  in  towns  of,  159;  ptilitical 
situation  of,  160;  nomenclature  of 
natives  of,  160;  under  Austrian  rule, 
160,  169;  appearance  of,  from  coast 


33^ 


INDEX 


and  interior,    i6o;  timber  cut  from, 
167;  forestry  plans  of  government  of, 
167;  bay  or  gulf  called  Valle  in,  179; 
rivulets  unusual  in,  180;  part  of,  once 
held   by   Spain,    181;    mountains  of, 
188;  Adriatic  seaport  of,   196;  route 
between  Montenegro  and,  204,  211; 
prettiest  valley  in,  222;  character  of 
country    in    upper,    223;     safety   of 
property  in,  225;  differences  between 
the   Herzegovina,   Montenegro,   and, 
254;  appreciation  of,  325,  326 
"Ualmatia,  Guide  to,"  Petermann,  20 
Danilo  II.,  of  Montenegro,  203 
Delia  Robbias  of  Empoli,  20 
Dinara,  Mt.,  126 
Dinarian  Alps,  61,  87,  100,  128 
Diocletian,  109,  iii 

Diocletian's  aqueduct,  see  under  Aque- 
duct 
Diocletian's  Palace,  Spalato,  105,  109- 

III,  113,  117,  122 
"Distances  measured  by  time,"  32 
Djett  bishop,  252 
Dobrota,  172 
Dogonovci,  275 
Dolac,  270 

Dolce  Grj,  native  dessert,  85 
Dolmali,  40 
Dolomite    formation    near    Grabovica, 

253 
Dominican   monastery,    Lacroma,    157 
Dominican  monastery,  Ragusa,   154 
Draga,  39 

Dragazzo,  Castel,  103 
Dragotinja,  293 
Dragu,  39 

Drau  (Drave),  River,  318 
Drenovo  Pass,  296 
Drezanjka  River,  253 
Dreznik,  306 
Drijen,  defile  of,  223 
Drin  River,  172 
Duare,  128 
Dubac,  222 

Dubrovnik  (Ragusa),  167 
Dulcigno,  204 
Duomo,  Pisa,  70 
Duomo,  Ragusa,  149,  151,  152 
Durazzo,  172 
Dusina,  134 

E 

Earthquakes  at  Ragusa,  169 
Educational  institutions  of  Agram,  312 
Elephant,  Hotel,  Gratz,  320 


Elizabeth,  Queen  of  Hungary  (i377).  7^ 
Emilia,  Via,  21 
Empoli,  20 

England,  maritime  rival  of  Ragusa,  169 
English  language,  use  of,  20,  53 
English  ships  in  Trieste  harbor,  21 
English  tongue  unknown  in  Croatia,  53 
Enterprising     photographer    of     Sebe- 

nico,  90 
Epidaurus  Sea,  220 
Epidaurus  (Zara  Vecchia),  172 
Erizzo,  Count,  77 
Erzegnovi   (Castelnuovo),    181 
Esculapius,  Baptistery  originally  dedi- 
cated to.  III 
Eugene,  Viceroy  of  Italy,  129 
European     aspect     replacing     Asiatic 
under  Austrian  rule,  260 


"F.  J.  I.,"  outlined  in  stones  on  moun- 
tain slope,  227 

Farasina,  Canale  di,  31 

Ferdinand  of  Austria,  48 

Figures  common  to  various  languages,S5 

Fiume,  31,  38,  39 

Flavium  Solvense,  Roman  City,  319 

Fojnica,  237 

Fojnica  River,  269 

Foligno,  19 

Forestry  plans  of  Dalmatian  govern- 
ment, 167 

Fossa,  Zara,  78 

Fracasso,  Francisco,  tablet  to  honor  of, 
60 

France,  Republic  of  Poljica  seized  by, 
125 

Francis  Josef  University,  Agram,  312 

Franciscan    church,    Jajce,    282,     283, 

285,  325 
Franciscan  church,  Mostar,  248,  249 
Franciscan   cloister,    Ragusa,    150 
Franciscan  Farmacia,  apothecary  shop 

founded  in  1307,  Ragusa,  150 
Franciscan  monastery,  Bua,  102 
Frangipani,  the  40,  41,  43,  48 
Franks  at  Zara,  73 
Frederic  III.,  Emperor,  321 
French  highways,  19,  103,  160 
French  in  Clissa,  119;    in  Gratz,  322; 

in  Zara,  74 
French  occupation  of  Ragusa,  169 
French  ships  in  Trieste  harbor,  21 
Frohnleiten,  322 
Funeral,  Ragusa,  165 


332 


INDEX 


Gabiniana,  Via,  ii8 

Gacka  River,  54 

Gacko,   225,  226,  230-237,  268,  326 

Gacko,  plain  of,  227,  230 

Galovac,  Lake  of,  302 

"Game"  birds  in  Italy,  26 

Game  on  Narcnta  River,  135 

Games,  children's,  242 

German  colonists  near  Kozorac,  Bos- 
nia, 292 

German  language,  use  of,  20,  77,  i2i, 
256,  266 

German  occupation  of  Zengg,  48 

German  summer  resorts,  315 

Giardino  Pubblico,  Zara,  74 

Gionchetto,  168 

Girls  of  Ragusa,  154 

Giupana,  height  of,   141 

Glogosnica,  valley  of,  253 

Gold-thread  work  done  by  Turkish 
women,  279 

Goles  station,  274 

Gomilica,  Castel,  see  Abbadessa,  Castel 

Gonobitz,  316 

Good  Friday  celebration,  Zara,  66,  71, 
78,  155,  325 

Gorazda,  P'ort,  196,  213 

Gorizia,  Counts  of,  31 

Gospic,  47,  55-58,  300 

Government  hotels,  Gacko,  Mostar, 
and  Ilidze,  268 

Government  trout-breeding  establish- 
ment, 267 

Grabok  Saddle,  238,  240 

Grabovac,  128 

Grabovica,  253 

Grahovo,  battle  of,  210 

Gran  Kapella  range  of  Croatian  moun- 
tains, 29 

Grand  Canon,  comparison  with,   255 

Grand  Hotel  Bellevue,  Spalato,  104,  105 

Gratz,  318,  320-323 

Gravosa,  142-144,  146,  161 

"Great  Defile,"  253 

Grljic,  — ,  engineer,  129 

Grobnica,  plain  of,  80 

Gromeljak,  269 

Gruda,  180 

"Griinen  Strand,"  Zelenika,   217 

Gualdo  Tadino,  21 

Gurkfeldt,  314 

Ctisla,  249 

"GiUen  Tag,"  an  overworked  saluta- 
tion, 35 

Guvina,  Messer  Andrea,  no,  in 


H 

Hadzici,  sawmills  of,  259 

Hafendorf,  323 

Harem,  visit  to  a,  278,  279 

Harness,  native,  116,  227 

Henderson,   Major,   quoted,    247 

Henna-stained  hair,  249 

Herzegovina,  the,  no  n>ad  maps  to,  27;. 
routes  into,  129,  138;  mountains  of, 
134;  under  Turkish  rule,  137,  224; 
costumes  of,  139,  155,  157,  260,  325; 
source  of  the  Trebinjcica  River  in, 
143;  gay  harnesses  in,  176;  capital 
of,  181,  244;  derivation  of  name  of, 
181;  frontier  of,  223,  256,  258;  an- 
nexed to  Austria,  225;  under  Austrian 
rule,  226;  roads  in,  226;  Bogomiles 
in,  252;  ditTerent  from  Dalmatia  and 
Montenegro,    254 

Hodilje,  139 

Hohenegg,  316 

Hohenwang,  castle  of,  324 

Hohlbach's,  Mrs.,  book  on  Dalmatia,  20 

Holland,  maritime  rival  of  Ragusa,  169 

Holy   Thursday   celebration,    57 

Horses,  conduct  before  motor  car,  30, 
49,  51,  56,  58,  62,  84,  177,  179,  180, 
190,  191,  195,  196,  198,  287,  293,  296, 
308 

Hotel  de  la  Ville,  Sebenico,  88,  89,  91 

Hottemesch,  314 

Hrusica,  30 

Hrvoja,  after  whom  market-place  tower, 
Spalato,  is  named,  282 

Hum,  hills  of ,  238,  243 

Humberg,  the,  315 

Hungarian  Lloyd  steamer,  77,  78 

Hungary,  seaport  of,  39;  Zara  and, 
74;  commerce  between  Ragusa 
and,  167;  relations  of  Ragusa  and, 
168,  170;   Croatia  a  province  of,  312 


Icici,  32 

Igalo,  cemetery  of,  181 

Igman  Planina,  Mt.,  258,  259,  267,  269 

Ika,  32 

Ilidze,  259,  266-268,  326 

Illuminated  waterfall  near  Jajce,  281 

Illyrians,  73,  107 

Illyricum,  ancient,  85 

Imotski,  129 

Imperial  Hotel,  Ragusa,  144 

Imperial  Palace,  Gratz,  321 


333 


INDEX 


India,  custom  of  wearing  betelnut  in, 

284 
Inscriptions  on  cottages,  320 
Istria,  peninsula  of,  27,  28,  68 
Italian  art  influence  in  Dalmatia,  102 
Italian  city  of  Zara,  77 
Italian  creches  or  presepi,   22 
Italian  game  birds,  26 
Italian    language    in    the    Balkans,    20, 

70,  76,  77,  121 
Italian  roads,  160 
Italian  schools  in  Zara,  77 
Italian  suburbs,  153 
Italian  Touring  Club,  18 
Italian  well-sweeps,  310 
Italians  in  Ragusa,  168 
Italy,  conquest  of  (489  A.  D.).  30 
Ivan  Pass,  255,  256,  258,  326 
Ivanica,  223 
Ivanjska,  291 


Jablan,  valley  of  the,  274 

Jablanica,  254,  326 

Jackson  (F.  H.  and  T.  G.),  quoted,  70, 

71,   76,  82,  88,   loi,   103,   no,    112, 

i43>  149.  152,  153.  169 
Jadar,  see  Zara 
Jadran,  Hotel,  Bakar,  40 
Jadro  River,  95,  104,  1 17-120 
Jagare,  287 
Jajce,  255,  259,  268,  275-286,  289,  290, 

325.  326 
Jamnicka  Kiselica,  bottled  water,  304 
Japanese  aspect  of  Kosluk,  277 
Jastrebarsko,  310 
Jazbina,  313 
Jazvaci,  310 
Jehovac,  269 

Jesuits,  Society  of,  Porto  Re,  41 
Jewess'  cap,  249,  250,  283 
Jezero,  lake  of,  280 
Joanneum,  Museum,  Gratz,  321 
Jurasevo  Ulica,  32 


K 

Kainach  River,  320 

Kaiser  Franz  Josef  Bad,  315 

Kambelovac,  Castel,  see  Cambio, 

Castel 
Kamenari,  172,  174,  188,  191,  217 


Kapfenburg,  323 

Kapitel  Stadt,  Agram,  31 1 

Karanovac,  287 

Karin  Lake,  6i,  63 

Karin,  Novigrad,  and  Vrana  highway, 
81 

Karl  Franz  University,  Gratz,  321 

Karlstadt  (Karlovac),  63,  309 

Karst,  the,  43,  44,  80,  82,  128,  200,  226 

Kastelj  hill,  81 

"Kate  Grubic,  Gostiona,"  119 

Katunska  Ulica,  Cetinje,  202,  207,  209 

Kcucie,  127 

Kerosene  can  water  pails,  55,  195 

Kindberg,  323 

Klanfari,  41 

Kleinwagna,  319 

Klek,  peninsula  of,  139 

Klincaselo,  310 

Klis  (Clissa),  119 

Knin,  59,  63,  82,  83,  87,  95 

Kornadinaquella  River,  253 

Komar  Saddle,  274 

Kompolje,  52 

Konjica,  256 

Korana  River,  306,  307,  309 

Kornmesser-Haus,  Bruck,  323 

Kosjak,  Lake,  304 

Kosluk,  277 

Kotsch,  316 

Kotting  Brook,  315 

Kozica  River,  270 

Kozjak,  Mt.,  117,  118 

Kozorac,  292 

Kraljevica,  40,  41 

Krasic,  310 

Krcma,  84 

Krisanje  inn,  268 

Krivacko     Zdrjelo,    pass   of,    199,    211 

Krivosije,  mountains  of,  198 

Krizanje,  inn  of,  259 

Krka  River,  and  Falls  of  the,  20,  61, 
86-88,  91 

Krnjak,  308,  309 

Krstac  grotto,  212 

Krstac,  guard  house  at,  211 

Krupa,  287,  295,  296 

Krupa's  castle,  287,  296 

Kseljak,  256,  269 

Kukovica  Saddle,  291 

Kulpa  River,  310 

Kumbor,  189 

Kumbor,  Canale  di,  184 

Kupcina  River,  310 

''  Kiiss  die  Handf"  an  overworked  salu- 
tation, 46,  265 

Kvarte,  56 


334 


INDEX 


La  Catene,  191,  214 

Lacroma,  24,  145,  154.  i57.  >S8.  220,  222 

Ladislas  of  Hungary,  79 

Lakes,  winter,  29,  80,  135,  180 

Lalla  Rookh,  209 

Landhaus,  (iratz,  321 

Langcnwang,  324 

Lapad,  161,  165,  222 

La   Sponza,    mint   and   custom    house 
Ragusa,  150 

Lasva  River,  270,  271,  273 

Latin   nations  make   use  of  expressive 
intonations,  113 

Leathern  belts  of  Dalmatians,  23,  107 

Ledem,  320 

Leibnitz,  319 

Lepenica  River,  259,  268,  269 

Lepetane,  192,  214,  215 

Lesce,  54 

Lesina,  island  of,  74,  100 

Liburnia,  ancient,  82 

Lichtenegg  Castle,  323 

Lika  River,  56 

Lion  of  St.  Mark  in  Zara,  70;  in  Traii, 
100,  102 

"Ljecamica,      Farmacia,      Apotheke," 
Ragusa,  150 

Ljubuski,  134 

Loggia,  Traii,  loi,  102 

Lombard  invasion,  30 

Louis  of  Hungary,  167,  191 

Lovcen,  Mt.,   189,  193,   196,  198,   199, 
211,  326 

Love  of  nature  bond  between  all   na- 
tions, 146 

Lovrana,  34 

Luc,  313 

Lucius,  ancient  historian,  102 

Lucko,  310 

Luksic,  Castel,  see  Vitturi,  Castel 
Lussin,  61 

M 

Macedonia,  209 

Madonna    dello    Scalpello,    pilgrimage 

church  of,  192,  214 
Maggiore,  Monte,  31 
Mahomet  II.,  war  against,  103 
Mahomet  Pasa,  mosque  of,  Mostar,  245, 

246 
Mail  steamer,  Zara,  77,  78 
Malfi,  bay  of,  142,  143 
Mali  Halan  Pass,  20,  47,  60 
Malta,  Knights  of,  182 


Mallemix),  canal  of,  41 
Maps,  18,  20,  27 

Maquis,    characteristic    type    of    vege- 
tation, 55 
Maraschino  wine  district,  125 
Marburg,  316,  318,  323 
"Maria  Theresa,"  native  ornament,  70 
Marina,  Porta,  Zara,  70,  73,  74,  78 
Marjan,  M<jnte,  105,  122 
Market-place,  point  of  interest,  113 
Mathias  Corvinus,  Hungarian  king,  iS3 
Mausoleum,  Diocletian's  Palace,  Spal- 

ato,  1 10 
Maximilian,   Emix,-ror,  of  Mexico,    25, 

157 

May-day  celebration,  Ragusa,  176 

Medusa,  curious  marine  creature,   185 

Meja,  40 

Mekdolac,  63 

Meleda,  height  of,  141 

Meljine,  172,  182,  185,  188 

Metkovic,  20,  124,  134-138 

Mezzo,  141 

Michael,  son  of  Prince  Mirko  of  Monte- 
negro, 203 

Michelozzo,  architect,  151 

Mills,  Bosnian,  typical,  270 

Minceta  Tower,  177,  222 

Mirabella,  castle  of,  126 

Miramar,  Chateau  of,  25 

Mirinovo,  143 

Mirko,  Prince,  of  Montenegro,  203 

Mittendorf,  323 

Mixnitz,  323 

Moesia,  30 

Mohammed  IL,  168 

Mohammedan  cemeteries,  237,  240,  251, 
272,  297,  298 

Monotony  replacing  picturesqueness,  78 

Montagna,  Canale  della,  61,  63 

Montenegrin  Alps,  230 

Montenegro,  no  road  maps  of,  27; 
Albanians  in,  166;  route  into,  172, 
194,  195,  204;  mountains  of,  180, 
187,  193,  196,  223;  national  cap  of, 
198,  201;  royalty  alone  owns  auto- 
mobiles in,  200;  royal  family  of ,  203; 
Servians  founded,  204;  army  of,  204, 
209;  recognized  by  Powers,  204; 
sea{X)rts  of,  204;  ruler  of,  204;  area 
of,  204;  inhabitants  of,  204;  Turkish 
invasion  of  and  defeat  by,  210;  capital 
of,  211;  successful  tour  of,  221; 
(litTcrs  from  the  Herzegovina  and 
Dalmatia,  254 
Morinje,  172 
Morlacca,  the,  42 


335 


INDEX 


Morlacchi  people,  68,  78,  112,  325 

Morpolaca  River,  82 

Mosko,  227 

Moslem  religion,  280 

Mosor,  Mt.,  118,  122,  125 

Mostanje,  309 

Mostar,    235,   238,  241-252,    268,    289, 

325,  326 
Motor  car,  convenience  of  travelling  by, 

121,  123,  124,  160,  161 
Motor  car,  equipment  of,  s^ 
"Motor  diligence"  up  the  Una  valley 

via  Krupa,  295 
Mravince,  123 
Mrkan,  rock  of,  179 
Mrzljaki,  310 
Muezzin  call,  244,  280 
Muggia,  28,  31 

Mur  River,  319,  320,  322,  323 
Murz  River,  323 
Miirzzuschlag,  324 
Mushrahieh  work  of  Cairo,  no 
Musica  River,  231 
Musicians,   street,   welcome  among  all 

peoples,  34 

N 

Nadin,  Lake  of,  80 

Nahaj  Castle,  Zengg,  46 

Names  in  two  languages,  29,  39,  45.  121 

Napoleon,  Emperor,   41,   86,    129,    169 

Narenta  River,  135,  136,  138,  242,  246, 
252,  253,  25s,  256 

Narenta  valley,  238,  252 

Naro  (Narenta)  River,  138 

Narodni  Dom  inn  at   Castelnuovo,   30 

Narona,  85,  138 

Nathalie,  wife  of  Prince  Mirko  of  Monte- 
negro, 203 

Necropolis  Suburbana,  Salona,  118 

Nehaj,  Castel,  see  Papali,  Castel 

Neu-Bilek,  227 

Neum,  139 

Neustein,  Schloss,  314 

Nevesinje,  237,  238 

"New  woman  of  Turkey,"  156 

Newspapers,  76,  77,  266 

Niagara,  falls  of  the  Krka  contrasted 
with,  88 

Nice,  19,  268 

Nicola  I.,  Prince,  of  Montenegro,  202, 
203 

Nightingales,  246,  264,  280 

Ninfa,  20 

Njegus,  199,  212 

Nocera,  21 


Nona,  61 

Norino,  watch-tower  of,  136 

Novi,  43 

Novigrad,  81 

Novigrad,  lake  of  (or  sea),  61,  63 


Obcina,  21 

Obed,  179 

Ober-Cilli,  315 

Oborgi,  274 

Obrenovitch  dynasty,  of  Servia,  203 

Obrovac  (Obrovazzo),  59,  63 

Oest  Automobil  Club  Auto-Benzin  und 

Oel  Station,  53 
Ogulin,  301 

"Old  master"  discovered  in  Zara,   72 
Olive  oil  merchant,  Zara,  69 
Omarsko,  286,  291 
Ombla  River,  143 
Onofrio  de  La  Cava,  architect,  151 
Opanka,  native  sandal,  51,  69,  132,  133 
Oracular  responses  possible  in  Diocle- 
tian's mausoleum,  no 
Orahovac,  172 
Orasac,  142 

Orchids  at  Plitvica  Lakes,  302 
Orient,  value  of  wells  in,  44 
Orlov  Krs,  Cetinje,  203 
Orsini,  Georgio,  architect,  151 

Orsola,  Val  d',  178,  220,  222 

Orthography  of  Slavic  place  names,  121 

Ossero,  Monte,  61 

Ostrogoths  and  the  conquest  of  Italy,  30 

Ostrovac,  256 

Ostrovica,  Mt.,  82 

Otocac,  20,  50,  53,  54 

Otoka,  296 

Otric-Struge,  135 

Otto,  Mag.,  112 


Padua,  19,  21 

Pago,  island  of,  61,  63 

Painted  mosque,  Travnik,  271,  272 

Pakoscane,  79 

Palermo,  21 

Palestrina,  20 

Palm  Sunday,  29 

Panhaus,  Hotel,  Semmering  Pass,  324 

Pantheon,  Rome,  no 

Papali  or  NehaJ,  Castel,  103 

Paravia,  Biblioteca,  Zara,  78 


336 


INDEX 


Parcels-post,   convenience  of,  38,   266, 

Parenzo,  28 

Paris,  19 

Pasjak,  30 

Pazaric',  259 

Peggau,  322 

Perasto,  77,  172,  1QI-193,  213 

Pernegg,  323 

Pcrusic,  56 

Perusic,  castle  of,  82 

Perzagno,  194,  213 

Pesaro,  21 

Petasse,  310 

Peter  II.,  Prince,  mortuary   chapel  of. 

211 
Petermann's  "Guide  to  Dalmatia,"  20 
Petka,  Mt.,  161,  177 
Petrarch's  "I  Trionii,"  321 
Petrovic  dynasty,  of  Montenegro,   203 
Petrovoselo,  300 
"Pettini,"  Ragusa,  145 
"Pettini,"  Ragusa  Vecchia,  179 
Pfannberg,  ruins  of,  322 
Piccola  Venezia,  104,  119 
Piccolo  della   Sera,   II,   Trieste,    76,    77 
Pichl,  Schloss,  323 

Piero  the  sea-gull,  164,  165,  170,  171,175 
Pierre,  Prince,  of  Montenegro,  207 
Pietro  III.,  archbishop  of  Spalato  (837), 

103 
Pile,  Porta,  Ragusa,  148,  153,  165 
Pipes,  stone,  laid  through  marshes,  81 
Pirano,  28,  31 
Pirates,  44-46,  48,  126 
Pisa,  19,  20,  70 
Plague  at  Ragusa,  168,  169 
Plane-trees  of  Ragusa,  142 
Plat,  178 
Pliny,  quoted,  82 
Plitvica  Lakes,  54,  295,  301-306 
Pliva  River,  275,  276,  280 
Pljesevica  Mountains,  297-299 
Piece,  Porta,  Ragusa,  153 
Podvelez,  Mt.,  238 
Podvran,  296 
Podvrk,  313 
Pokoj,  297 
Pola,  28,  105 
Policemen,  dearth  of,  166 
Poljica,  Republic  of,  125 
Pompeii,  baths  of,  117 
Popovo  district,  252 
Porto  Casson,  156 
Porto  Re,  41 

Prairies,  the  Karst  compared  with,  44 
Preloge,  316 


Preluka,  stone  quarries  of,  31 
Prenj  Alp,  251,  253-255,  257,  258,  326 
Presepi,  Italian,  22 
Priboj,  54,  300 
Prjedor,  290,  293 
Prokljan,  lake  of,  82,  87 
Pronunciation   of    Serbo-Croatian    lan- 
guage, rules  for,  20 
Prozor,  255 
Punta  d'  Ostro,  168,  178 


Quarco,  Castel,  103 
Quarnero,  islands  of  the,  68 
Queen  of  Italy,  203 

Queretaro,  field  where  Emjjeror  Max- 
imilian fell,  25 


R 

Rabenstein,  castle  of,  322 

Racice,  30 

Radman  Mills,  126 

Radonja  River,  309 

Radua,  314 

Ragusa,  city  and  Republic  of,  124,  128, 

137-139,  142-157,  159.  164-171,  175- 

177,   179,   1981    220,    222,   235,   252, 

266,  326 
Ragusa  Vecchia,  179 
Railroads,  18,  58,  67,  95,  182,  256,  257, 

266,    270,    274,    291,    293,    296,   301, 

310. 324 
Rakovac,  309 
Rakovica,  306,  307 
Rakovpotok,  310 
Rama  Valley,  255 
Rann,  313 
Rapallo,  19 
Rascia,  original  home  of  the  Morlacchi, 

68 
Rastelica,  258 
Rattsdorf,  320 
Ravenna,  19,  21 
Ravljane,  54 

Rector's  Palace,  Ragusa,  151,   168,   171 
Red  Sea,  264 

Reichselstein,  citdteau  of,  313 
Remetinec,  31 1 
Rialto,  Venice,  244 
Ricardo,  Arco  di,  Trieste,  24 
Riccardi,  Palazzo,  Florence,  151 
Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  tradition  con- 


cernmg,  24 


337 


INDEX 


Ricicie  River,  valley  of,  59 

Rimini,  18,  19,  21 

Risano,  172,  217 

Risano,  stage  from,  190 

Riva  Vecchia,  Zara,  74,  78 

Riviera  of  Ragusa  and  the  Bocche,  326 

Riviera  of  the  Sette  Castelli,   103,   116 

Riviera,  the,  19,  20 

Rjeka  (Fiume),  39,  208 

Roads,  condition  of,  32,  38,  40,  41,  43, 
47-51.  54,  57,  58,  60,  63,  64,  79-81,  87, 
88,  95,  96,  100,  103,  118,  125,  126, 
128-130,  138-140,  160,  172,  176,  178, 
192-194,  197,  198,  209,  211,  213,  225- 
227,  229,  256,  269,  285,  286,  290-293, 
295-297,  300,  301,  306,  310,  3",  3'^3y 
315,  316,  317,320,  322-324 

Roman  antiquities,  76,  315,  319 

Roman  place  of  exile,  102 

Roman  ruins  (Trieste),  24;  (Pola),  28; 
(Zara),  74;  (of  aqueducts),  81;  (near 
Salona),  104;  (Spalato),  109;  (Salona), 
116-118;  see  Diocletian's  Palace,  Spa- 
lato 

Romanesque  art,  fine  example  of,  loi, 
no 

Rome,  19-21 

Romerbad,  315 

Rothelstein,  precipice  of,  323 

Route  from  Paris  to  Dalmatia,  19-21 

Rovigno,  28 

Rovigo,  21 

Royalty  of  Montenegro,  200,  203 

Rucani  River,  189 

Rudolf,  Crown  Prince,  157 


S.  Euphemia,  76 

S.  Michele,  Ugljan,  76 

S.  Stefano  de  Pinis,  church  of,  iii 

Sabbioncello,  Peninsula  of,  139 

Saborski,  306 

Sahara   Desert,   comparison   with,    160 

Salona,  85,  102,  104,  116-118 

Salonian  Gulf,  119 

Samobor,  313 

Sana  River,  293,  294 

San  Cosimato,  20 

San  Domenico,  church  of,  Ragusa,  153 

San  Donato,  Zara,  76 

San  Francesco,  Zara,  71,  72 

San    Georgio    Maggiore,    Library    of, 

Venice,  151 
San  Giacomo  degli  Olivi,  153 
San  Giacomo,  monastery  of,   177,   222 


San  Giorgio,  Benedictine  abbey  of ,  193, 

214 
San  Giovanni,  fort  of,  Sebenico,  92 
San  Grisogono,  Zara,  72,  73 
San  Guiseppe,  tree  growing  over  door 

of,  162,  163 
San  Marco,  monastery  of,  Lacroma,  157 
San  Michele,  165 
Sann  River,  314,  315 
San  Simeone,  Zara,  71 
Santa  Savina,    monastery    of,    186-188, 

218 
Sapjane,  31 
Sarajevo,  252,  255,  259-264,  270,  272, 

289 
Sardine-fishing,  156 
Sasak,  39 

Save  River,  311,  313,  314 
Savina,  182 
Scardona,  83-87 
Schlossberg,  Gratz,  322 
Schwab,  Hotel,  Kseljak,  269 
Schwanberg  Alps,  319,  320 
Schwarzequelle,  the,  253 
Sculptured  heads   in   Sebenico,   90,  91 
Scutari,  200 

Scutari,  Lake  of,  200,  209 
Season  to  visit  Dalmatia,  18 
Season  to  visit  Ragusa,  170 
Sebenico,  61,  83,  87-97,  m,  ^45,  151 
Seghetto,  100 
Segna  (Senj  or  Zengg),  44 
Segni,  20 

Semmering,  the,  322,  324 
Senj  (Segna  or  Zengg),  44 
Serbo-Croatian  language,  20 
Sergio,  Mt.,  148,  157,  167,  220,  222 
Servia,  48,  204,  252 
Servian-Croatian  language,  77 
Servians  discard  national  costumes,  249 
Servians  founded  Montenegro,  204 
Sette  Castelli,  Riviera  of  the,  103,  116 
Sheep  shearing,  300 
Shooting  on  Narenta  River,  135 
Shrines,  wayside,  319 
Sibenik  (Sebenico),  93 
Siena,  19,  20 
Siesta,  hour  of  the,  89 
Signori,  Piazza  dei,  Zara,  78 
"        Piazza  dei,  Spalato,  112 
"       Piazza  dei.  Trail,  loi 
Silk  industry,  Scardona,  86 
Silversmiths'    work.    Treasury    of    the 

Duomo,  Ragusa,  152,  153 
Sinj,  118 
Sisicic,  256 
Slano,  140 


338 


INDEX 


Slavic  names  and  language,  20,  36,  77, 

84,  121 
Slavonja,  83,  314 

Slavs  in  "wandering  of  the  tribes,"  30 
Slunjj,^307 
Smilcic,  64 

Smoking  by  Croatian  ladies,  41 
Smokovo,  41 
Sokolac,  castle  of,  297 
"Solta,  honey  of,"  etc.,  104 
Solta,  island  of,  100,  i  ly,  123 
South  Slavonian  Academy  of  Science, 

Agram,  312 
Spagnuolo,  Fort,  182,  218 
Spalato,    83,   95-97,    103-116,    118-124, 

137,  145,  244,  252,  282 
Spalato,  bay  of,  122 
Spaniards  in  Castelnuovo,  181,  182 
Spanish   attitude   toward    Ragusa,    170 
Spanish  roads,  160 

Spethan  Bathory,  King  of  Poland,  321 
Spezia,  19,  20 
Spincici,  31 
Spital-Rettenegg,  324 
"Split"  (Spalato),  104,  105 
Spljet  (Spalato),  105 
Squaw-root  at  Plitvica  Lakes,  303 
Stadt-Park,  Marburg,  318 
Stafileo,  Castel,  103 
Stages  between  Ragusa  and  Gravosa, 

146 
Stagno,  168 

Stagno  piccolo,  Canale  di,  139,  140 
Starigrad,  61 

Steam-boat  established  means  of  trans- 
portation in  Dalmatia,  28 
Steamer   route    between    Obrovac   and 

Zara,  63 
Steinbruck,  314 
Steiner  Alps,  315 
Steinhaus,  324 
Sternstein,  Castle,  316 
St.  Francis,  church  and  monastery  of, 

Spalato,  108 
Stjepan  Sandalj,  Duke,  181,  239 
Stjepangrad,  castle  of,  238,  239 
St.  Luke,  campanile  of,  Jajce,  282 
St.  Luke's  belfry,  1 23 
St.  Marein,  323 
St.  Mark,  lion  of,  70,  100,  102 
St.  Mark's  church,  Agram,  311 
Stobrec,  1 25 
Stobrec  River,  125 
Stolivo,  donji,  or  lower,  194,  213 
Stolivo,  gornji,  or  upper,  193,  213 
St.  Peter's  belfry,  123 
"  Strada  Maestra,"  128 


Stradone,  Ragusa,  148,  150,  176 

Strichowetz,  319 

Slruka,  native  shawl,  202,  206 

St.  Stephen  of  Hungary,  152 

Study  of  ruined  city  necessary  before 

visit,  1 16 
Stupink,  310 
St.  Urban,  peak  of,  316 
Styjia,  313,  320 
Sucurac,  Castel,  103 
Sulphur  springs,  Ilidze,  259 
Sulphur  springs,  Spalato,  122 
Supetar,  rock  of,  179 
Suriki,  41 
Sut  Juraj  (S.  Giorgio)  (Sucurac,  Castel), 

103 
Sutorina,  river  and  valley  of,  181,  220 
Svilaja  Mountains,  61 
Svratiste  Lika,  Gospic,  56,  57 
Sv.  Rok,  59 
Sv.  Stipan  chapel,  125 
Swiss  chalets,   houses  which   resemble, 

52.  258 
Sycamore  trees,  of  Ragusa,  142 


Tarcin,  sawmills  of,  259 

Tartars'  defeat  on  plain  of  Grobnica, 

80 
Temple  of  Jupiter,  Diocletian's  Palace, 

Spalato,  no 
Teodo,  Bay  of ,  189,  191,  196,  217 
Tepanje,  316 
Tergeste,  30 

Terni,  and  Cascades  of,  19,  21 
Terns,  67 

Terraferma,  Porta,  Zara,  64 
Terre  Firma,  Porta  de.  Trail,  100 
Theodoric,  king  of  the  Ostrogoths,  30 
Therapia  Palace  Hotel,  Crkvenica,  41 
Tivoli,  20 
Tjesno,  Gorge,  287 

Tomasewitch,  last  king  of  Bosnia,  283 
Tomb  of  Ismail  Baba,  near  Travnik, 

Tombs  of  Bosnian  viziers,  Travnik,  272 

Tommaseo,  Nicolo,  90 

Topla,  Baja  di,  184 

Tradition  and  history,  24 

Trajan,  aqueduct  built  by,  81 

Traste,  Bay  of,  213 

Trati,  83,  95,   100-102 

Travnik,  256,  268,  271-274,  326 

Travnik,  castle  of,  271 

Trebinjcica  River,  143,  224,  227 


339 


INDEX 


Trebinje,  176,  178,  187,  222,  224,  225, 

227,  235.  326 
Trebinje  River,  224 

Trebisnjica,  or  Tribinjcica,  River,  143, 

224,  227 
Tree  growing  over  door  of  SanGuiseppe, 

162,  163 
Trescanica  River  and  valley,  256,  257 
Treviso,  19,  21 
Tribanje,  61 
Trieste,  18,  19,  21-25,  27,  28,  31,  38, 

77,97,  136,  244,325 
Trinita,  Fort,  196,  197,  213 
Tristcno  (Cannosa),  142 
Trogir  (Trail),  100 
Troglav,  230 
Trpimir,  King  (837),  103 
Trupina,  native  boat,  135 
TutTer's  castle,  315 
Turia  Pass,  128,  129 
"Turkey,  new  woman  of,"  156 
Turkish  costume,   137,   156,    157,    224, 

246,  247,  284 
Turkish  village  house,  type  of,  259 
Turkish  watch-towers,  223 
Turkish    women,    229,    241-243,    277- 

279,  296,  298 
Turks  in  Balkan  history,  48,  71,  74,  79, 

82,  103,  119,  128,  139,  167-170,  181, 

182,  204,  209, 210,  224,  256,  281,  283, 

322 
Turks  object   to   being   photographed, 

228,  249 
Tusilovic,  309 

Tvarko    I.,  Bosnian  king,  founder    of 

Castelnuovo,  181 
Tvertko  II.,  King  of  Bosnia  (fourteenth 

century),  271 

u 

Ubinja,  309 

Udine,  19,  21 

Ugar  River,  286 

Ugljan,  72,  76 

Una  River,  294-297 

Urbas  River,   275-277,   285-288 

Urbino,  19,  21 

Uscocs,  the,  48,  86,  169 


Vakanski  Vrh,  59 
Vakuf,  256,  274,  275 
Vallone  of  Risano,  217 
Vecchio,  Castel,  103 


Veglia,  island  of,  31,  41,  42,  50 

Velebit  Mountains,  56,  62,  325 

Velebit  Pass,  59,  63 

Velebit,  plateau  of  the,  51 

Velez,  Mt.,  237,  251,  252 

"Velika  Gubavica"   (Falls  of  the  Ce- 

tina),  127 
Veljun,  307,  308 

Venetian  ships  in  Trieste  harbor,  21 
Venice  and   the  Venetians,   in  Balkan 

history,  31,  48,  71,  73,  79,  82,  83,  93, 

100,  113,  119,  128,  138,  139, 149, 167, 

170,  182,  191 
Verhovo,  314 
Vidouje,  138 
Vidovic,  mill  of,  119 
Village  houses,  types  of,  259 
Vilovac  Saddle,  259 
Vinac,  275 
Vinodol  Valley,  42 
Visocica  Planina,  Mt.,  256 
Vissech,  mills  of,  126 
Viterbo,  20 

Vitturi  or  Luksic,  Castel,  103 
Vlasic,  Mt.,  269,  270,  274 
Vrana,  81 
Vrana,  Lake  of,  81 
Vranjic,  104 
Vratnica,  Mt.,  269 
Vratnica,  mountain  range  of,  269 
Vratnik  Pass,  47,  50,  51 
Vratniku,  50 
Vrgo/ac,  131-133 
Vrmac,  Fort,  196 
Vrmac,  peninsula  of,  198 
Vrpolje,  95,  97 

w 

"Wandering  of  the  tribes,"  30 

Wartberg,  323 

Watershed  between  Adriatic  and  Black 

Seas,  258 
Wedding  customs,  Mostar,  249 
Wells,  the  value  in  the  Orient,  44 
"Whoa!"    universally    understood    by 

horses,  58 
Wicker  wagons,  22,  289 
Wild  animals  in  Dalmatia,  no  need  to 

fear,  97 
Wildon,  320 

Wilkinson,  Sir  Gardner,  quoted,  170 
Winchester,  General,  171 
Windisch-Feistritz,  316 
Winnowing  corn  in  Croatia,  manner  of, 

299,  300 
Wisconsin,  comparison  with,  291 


340 


INDEX 


Wochau,  316 

"Woman's  work"  in  the  Balkans,  140 

Women  as  burden-bearers,  29,  ^i,  42, 

43.  47.  166,  199,  307 
Woodwork,  mcdia'vai,  iii 


Zadar,  see  Zara 

Zagreb,  see  Agram 

Zagreb,  Hotel,  Zengg,  see  Agram  Hotel, 

Zengg 
Zagvozd,  128 
Zalomska  River,  237,  240 
Zara,  18,  57,  61,  63-79,  81,  83,  89,  93, 

128,  145,  155,  252,  325 
Zara  Vecchia,  81,  93,  172 
Zavalje,  299 
Zavic,  83 


Zavorio,  —  ,  engineer,  129 

Zegar,  fortress  of,  299 

Zelenika,  27,  172,  182-189,  217 

Zcljeznica  River,  259 

Zemonico,  64,  79,  80 

Zengg  (Senj  or  Segna),  44-48 

Zeughaus,  or  Arsenal,  Gratz,  321 

Zitnic,  95 

Zmajevich,     Vincenzo,     archbishop    of 

Zara,  77 
Zrmanja  River,  63 
Zrnovnica,  123 
Zujevina  River,  259,  268 
Zukici,  257 
Zupa,  196 
Zupa  valley,  213 
Zutalokva,  51 
Zvironjak  River,  196,  197 
Zwecaj-Grad  castle,  287 


341 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


v^M    mf 


m^  m^9 


StP    2  1987 


v^- 


.\i< 


JUN  0  6  1988 


Form  L9 — 15jn-10,'48  (B1039 )  444 


THE  LTBTIAIIT 

miTVERr^n  Y  OF  CALIFOROT* 

LOS  ANGELES 


J-  ■' 


»1V 


3  1158  01210  1035 


AA    000  738  603 


J 


